Jar of Dreams
by LePetitPappillon
Summary: Time had ceased, something it had not done in the months spent preparing, and finally, that morning did not seem so very near in fetid proximity. That horrid date was forgotten, even if anesthesia was only temporary relief to an inevitable good-bye.
1. Chapter 1

It was there she sat, horrified, saddened, and mute. Voice became null, a gem layered in mangled earth. Her heart had broken within her demure hands, a locket holding each of those desolate fragments as so much essence rushed upon her hapless palms. Fluid drained from those wells of wondrous colored glass, dyed such a fantastic emerald, as well as the cavity that once held a passionate core, that sacred article having been replaced by stagnant air.

"I love you, Roderich." The words came as they had, so entranced with meaning they could not coherently express. She had said them a hundred times before-a thousand-No. A number could not even adhere to those priceless sentiments. Each was far too beautiful and profound to hold even a single digit. They meant more than a mere label.

The man adjacent to her only wiped those bleeding windows. There was nothing more he could express; nothing more willing to form and leave those winding lips, that churning visage. He was disgusted; he was in a state of bitter melancholy; he was broken. And he was infatuated. All for the same woman he had loved so many blushing springs.

It was as though his muse had collapsed before him.

Not even undying adoration could restore the breath compacted inside her once rosy lungs.

Those sapphire orbs could only regard; regard the moth that had fallen inside the flame. If he attempted to save her, his own hand would be bound to ash.

The saddened one could not rescue her.

"I love you, Elizaveta. I'll write you letters. I'll send you gems. Anything you need." Spectacles were lifted and that wrinkled handkerchief removed those emotions, so frozen within their crystalline state. "I'm sorry…" Words buckled and came to bitter dust. The woman wiped those gathering droplets from her darling's snow hued cheeks.

Roderich blamed himself. Because they had lost. They had lost a war they did not wish to participate in. But their wrists were bound in chains. Protest was acid; it was death.

The pair saw the end coming before the beginning made its horrid appearance. They watched it arrive within its tanks and its terrifying scarlet flags; they watched it wash about those pretty streets with its blond hair and azure eyes. They watched as they were stripped naked and bound in swastikas.

They watched from their windows, as the streets were bathed in flesh and the screams of the dying innocent.

But nothing could be done.

They would not opposed.

And because they would not, their chains capsized the others, each of those unwilling boats falling to the bottom of that great crimson sea.

Roderich and Elizaveta could only accept. Accept and drown, choking upon all the essence that had been strewn against their untouched uniforms.

They stood against their judges, the lucky ones, the winners.

No. There were no winners.

They were simply the ones who lost less.

And it was decided that the woman would be given away. No longer would she see her Roderich. No longer would she be his darling queen. No. Now she was forbidden to his presence, wings torn and remnants doused in red paint.

She was at the mercy of the communists.

And as that sentence hit her as scalding water, she began to learn Russian.

It would be the only language she would need for months to come, likely years. Perhaps those odd syllables would bind her in eternity.

The others were punished as well, broken down and sold to the highest bidder; the tallest man within the room. But Roderich and Elizaveta did not focus upon the others' sad lacerations; their damages. Immediately, they bandaged their own wounds, their own bleeding sores and their shattered backs.

And the woman was to leave in the morning.

They would retrieve her.

That pair of damaged doves could only wait, sitting at the bench of Roderich's fantastic piano and stare into those blank keys, as though the black and white stripes would shatter and spell a grand message. An answer. _Hope_.

But of course, those cleanly lines did not move. They did not wake, nor did they stir even mildly until harassed by the man's persistent finger tips.

Yet, they did not stop their waiting, that apprehensive patience engulfing them as though they were insects to the mouth a fish glowing in luxurious scales.

Elizaveta, the beautiful Hungarian woman, could only grasp the hand of her equivalent, her sweetened Austrian, and hope that her fall would not be too far down that gaping well.

"Roderich, you won't forget about me, will you? You know that there's nothing that would hurt more…If you forget me."

"Of course I won't forget you…Elizaveta, you've been here so long, forgetting you would be like forgetting an entire limb. It's always been there. I can't lose something so easily."

"I know, love. I just needed to be sure."

Hands became intertwined, as two snakes mating in unending passion.

Then there was silence stretching out over horrid and relentless seconds.

"It's getting late…We can at least try to sleep. I don't want you to be sick tomorrow."

The woman positioned her fingers against her lover's, her head leaning upon his and her arms molding an embrace against his sobbing chest. A palm traveled to that ribcage, rounded digits finding shelter beneath the division of that crisp white blouse. Buttons were unemployed, left to hang stupidly as the jaw brought to the floor's mercy. Then that silken pad devoured Roderich's flesh, as though his doll was trying to extract that pulsing organ with bare determination. Kisses fluttered against his vulnerable neck as the tinges of entranced butterflies, and priceless gems found their place beneath curtains of peach satin.

"I don't give a damn about that." The sounds had shattered, singing the abandoned anthem of that handicapped woman. "I want you to make love to me. Because if I don't have your arms, I won't be able to fight back these tears. They're going to strangle me, Roderich." The siren's hold secured more of the opposite's structure, lips tying into knots of incoherent emotion.

The Austrian accepted that enticing hold and only rested his mounds upon the crown of his exalted queen, unable to stomach the very notion of their last union. He clutched her nearer, as though her defenseless image was to drop to the very base of a gaping chasm.

"Come on, Elizaveta. Let's go to bed." A fraction of those glittering tresses found refuge behind the woman's flushed ear. "I want to make love to you as well."

That pair of shattered figurines drifted from the musician's glorious piano and along those expansive halls, the very same corridors gazes had adhered to numerous times in the past. The Hungarian glanced to each of those paintings, as though she was seeing each of those crackling spirits the very first time in her experience. She drank of their presence, for she knew only memory would satiate that enraged conflagration, and had those lavish halls been left to time, her cadaver would surely burn.

The threshold opened; Attire curled about the tile of the Austrian king's bed chamber without much other than the cry of that lumping fabric.

Elizaveta found sanctuary against the sheets and Roderich found her, limbs engulfing one another as orifices met in embellished passion.

They moved with one another, kissing gently, touching flesh with careful fingers built of soft intent, figures melding and souls becoming a single union within that honeyed love making. Embraces were made as Roderich eased himself into his darling; his doll.

And they cried as they combined with such amorous intention, knowing it may very well be the last time their flesh would meet, not only in passion, but at all. Tongues acquainted and twined together as though they would never release their holds, and more tears were birthed within either's weeping visage.

When their session had come to its close, anatomies held one another and the entire universe had grown still. Time had ceased, something it had not done in the months spent preparing, and finally, that morning did not seem so very near in fetid proximity. That horrid date was forgotten, even if anesthesia was only temporary relief to an inevitable good-bye.

Consciousness vanished, because finally, that saddened pair could breathe without that perpetual shadow of the Soviet Union against their aching backs, so taken with their relentless brands and soaking lesions.

After wretched days of anticipation and nights wasted upon horrid insomnia, they could dream. Even though the demon was running yellowed nails against the napes of their necks.

There was acceptance. Because that was all there could be.

One cannot suddenly evacuate while staring into the eyes of a roaring hurricane; only close finicky vision and be patient as the current devours all surrounding the victim.

Elizaveta's arms were spread wide, and her sight was welded shut.


	2. Chapter 2

She arrived with her suitcase and her travel clothes, hair ruined by the hours and soul dead within those lucid irises. There was not one present to fetch her things, nor was one present to greet her. Elizaveta was left to the lethargic mercy of an emptied shell, and was made unsure as to what should be accomplished beneath her first several minutes.

Part of that battered woman was uncertain of her true and bare inhabitance of that gigantic and emptied home. One may anticipate God, yet, there is still utter surprise at his acceptance to invitation.

Since those parties were missed so many times previously.

The Hungarian could not believe that the hour had finally arisen.

Just as she could not believe no one had given it to her; that she had stolen for herself. Seconds before she had stood at the doorstep, hand churning from all the knocks she had implored, voice weary of calling, 'Hello' so many instances. Finally, patience wore as the winter coat made far too thin and well past shimmering prime, and her tired hands claimed the handled and released either threshold from its frame, gaining a great portal into an expansive institution.

Elizaveta walked inside, and there she was, irritated and well confused.

The woman was already caught inside the possessive palm of sinking dejection.

So, not willing to become even more defeated, she cried in her indignation, "Hello?" And again, "Hello? Is Mr. Braginski somewhere in all this mess?"

There was awareness for the one sought. The Russian man; the one labeled 'Ivan Braginski' who would act as something as an owner.

Elizaveta had seen him once; a flash. This Ivan was a large man with dull blond follicles strewn about his brow and eyes the consistency of glaring sapphires, holding the capacity to read one's soul as though it was a poem of cooperative crimson letters so neatly printed against a cinderblock.

And he was intelligent; she had been told that.

A fire that could ignite even the strongest of flame retardant material.

The Hungarian had sworn to be cautious.

Thought was interrupted by shuffling cotton and the sound of steps against those creaking boards. A feminine noise called, "I'm coming," all throughout those shifting halls. Shoes clicked upon that surface and the Hungarian took up her baggage (which she had only just set down) anticipating that lengthily appearance.

A woman with a heaving bosom came before her, breath well expended and face painted in all its scarlet pigments. Hair was kept short and an odd pair of trousers covered her legs and came to plain black suspenders.

For a moment, the brunette was taken to the days of her dissipated childhood, when she herself would dress within boy's attire.

The tired creature was not judged upon the odd shaping of her clothing, but her kindly face, which seemed to have such an undying will to welcome that scheduled guest, despite all those hurried colors.

"Hello. You must be Elizaveta." An accented Russian poured from her pretty lips and a simper of genuine composure infected that suddenly placid frame. She had taken form hold of her ephemeral breath and pounding heart. "I'm sorry not one was here any sooner. How long were you waiting?"

"Not too long…" Elizaveta grew nervous at her own response, layered with her elder tongue despite desperate attempts to be a faux native.

But to great relief, understanding came, as the water to the poor creature caught beneath the desert's cruel rays.

"Oh good. My name is Katya." There was another edition of an odd curl. "You must have had a long day and a hard trip over…If you need anything, than you can ask me for help. I know how difficult it is to start living in a new place with a new language and practically a new everything." Her communication desiccated into a pathetic whisper. "Especially here." And words beamed back as the sun though a teary sky. "But you'll get used to it. You might even like it…But before I go into all of that, let me show you to your room. We've been waiting for you, so each of us knows where it is."

"Thank you." The lost one did not have a voice leaning against her teeth. There was not much she wished to launch from that writing tongue. A great portion was trying to prevent fervent tears.

But Elizaveta was aware of their coming.

She had been since her sentence was clear.

Katya led that newly made companion throughout those passages and risers and past those magnificent paintings of rulers long dead and lovers who had ran so many years previously. It even resembled something of her former estate, but utterly dour, as though those golden frames and lovely carpets were meant to mask a truth hidden beneath winters.

And it was cold.

But the fresh inhabitant was expecting such brutal temperature.

They stopped at a plain barrier, a porthole written in elderly white paint with a polished brass knob. Katya pushed it from that creaking perimeter and gave sight to a dusty room with a bed cramped into the corner against that freezing window. Drapes hung onto that rotting surface, cobwebs of starved spiders clinging to them as a blanket to the hide of a sick man.

The one redeeming quality was likely the small bowl of mints resting upon the singular pillow, but even from the door way, one could see the candies were decrepit.

And besides that miniscule container, it was a regular chamber; a dresser, a night stand, even a desk with a fogging mirror before it. (Likely intended as a vanity) and a rug upon the floor, so worn it was beginning to unravel.

Elizaveta was robbed of comment.

"Well…Here we are. I'll let you get set up. Dinner will be in an hour. Please don't be late."

"…Wait. Your name was Katya, wasn't it?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Oh…You have a nice name."

"Thank you."

And then there was pause.

"Will I be meeting Mr. Braginski today? That's who I was told to report to."

"I don't know, to be honest. Sometimes Ivan just keeps to himself. But you're bound to meet him at some point."

A sullen nod. "And…What will I do here? It's pointless to be somewhere and do nothing."

"You'll do whatever you're told to do and whatever that may involve. And I would suggest doing it without complaining. Your life will be far easier if you just follow instructions. Some of us have had to learn the hard way…" The other's cerulean orbs pressed to her feet, naked all for the torn socks that surrounded them. Those mounds held a stoic and churned twist. "But don't worry yourself now. I would get some rest."

"Thank you, Katya."

"Of course."

So that misplaced woman laid upon those hackneyed sheets and allotted her head upon that rotting pillow, the sad bowl of confections set amongst the residue of that untouched desk. A film composed of years went ill satiated, all accept for that collection of mangled sugar.

Elizaveta did not rest in ease, despite the possessive and worn feeling that seemed to feed upon her as the desperate tick to soft flesh. Her writhing eyes wished to indulge upon succulent dreams, a homeless thing to a palace of wondrous confection, but her mouth was dry of that decadent wine and her abdomen empty as a horrid field after a five year drought. It did matter how her starving hand partook. That inconvenient need was never satiated.

An hour later, she forced those broken limbs to function, finding path through maze and down those flights of endless and vindictive stairs, locating a room dosed in members of that endless household. They were each positioned at the table as cooperative dolls, holding a plate of nourishment before them and hand against those compliant laps. The head of the table had gone, his placement still at its dutiful occupation, but that porcelain container dissipated as a hapless child within ruthless fog.

A single void seat lapped against the tale's smoothed edge and the flustered Hungarian claimed it, uncertain as to whom its true owner was.

It was not as thought she earnestly cared.

And as her presence breached their brittle serenity, they bathed that foreigner in their attention as well as their sour judgment, as though her flesh was in absolute disarray and must be seared clean.

At the very same instant, they were stripped nude themselves.

Most of that concentrated group was composed of blond-haired mannequins with sapphires painted beneath neat brows, while only one held the hue of mocha; his gems pigmented in emerald and his nature something even shy. That man did not seem to have such intention, his gaze not a crippling glare and that focus far more content with the warm food against his steaming plate, however limited the quantity may have been.

He was placed adjacently to a young woman with a bow sitting upon her pale golden crown, her cheek bones high and her lips well plump and crimson, as a freshly grown cherry. Her complexion was the consistency of virgin snow; her apples glistened as though they had been kissed in innocent rouge.

That sudden inhabitance was seemingly unwelcome to her, as she simply directed curiosity in Elizaveta's direction, touched her ornament, and went in eating in conservative bites, one of her dainty hands in the possession of the near and kindly man at her chilled flank.

She seemed the type of young lady to find pleasure in nothing. The brunette could not imagine those pretty mounds in any other form but a bitter pout.

And just as Elizaveta glanced to Katya for some kind of silent guidance, a voice shattered that muted clamor and every grain of informational hunger came to the one who had launched that inquiry.

"Are you the Hungarian woman?"

The orifice that was freshly broken came from an elder boy with a neat style of those sunny follicles, a pair of gleaming spectacles sitting against his nose, and two wells of brilliant azure glass left perfectly beneath raised brows. That odd soul was not yet free from the grasps of honeyed childhood, but had stepped barely within that barrier of manhood, and guarded a massive thirst for knowledge within those orbs always so poised in their wonders.

He was certainly a sharp knife within a drawer of aggressive blades.

"Oh yes…My name is Elizaveta. What are all of yours?"

"I'm Eduard."

And the quivering thing to his right. "My name is Raivis."

The one with a darkened scalp. "I'm Toris."

"Natasha."

"You know I'm Katya."Simper offered in hopeful acquaintanceship.

"It's nice to meet you all. Is someone missing?"

There was misplaced bliss.

"Oh, you'll know whose missing. Once you meet Ivan you'll never forget him."

"You mean Mr. Braginski?" The earthly eyed woman modeled her need for that screaming satiation. "Where is he?"

"Likely in his office, signing papers of drinking vodka."

"Probably both at the same time."

A quick round of mirth, all accept for that distraught young woman.

"You shouldn't speak of him that way. He works very hard."

"Oh? And we don't? My hands are burning from all the scrubbing I did today."

"Mine might as well be bleeding. I've been chopping up firewood."

"And then I moved it."

"And Ivan burns it. Seems to me like the temperature hasn't changed all too much. We might as well set fire to those useless blankets for all they're worth."

There was a great uproar of complaints until another thought left the fresh arrival's mouth.

"What does Ivan look like?" Elizaveta could hardly remember the man's visage; the only feature that truly seemed to attach to memory being that towering build, the mere size and structure something enormous and inhuman.

"You'll see him soon. And once you do, you'll recognize him."

"He's not hard to pick from a crowd."

"One of his hands must be the size of my face."

"He has lovely blue eyes."

The table went quiet and Natasha, (who had interjected the youngest opinion) populated her buds in stale bread.

"Well…Everyone had good qualities."

Dinner went along in hideous static.

And after devouring those meager meals, each of those weary slaves went to bed, the Hungarian woman covering herself within those ruined covers and trying once again to dream, to exit that dour asylum and drift to the arms of a faux Roderich; she would give anything to view his face again. Because he was beautiful, and in a series of worsening hours, her very existence had been thrown within a well converted to a pit of ember and flame.

Still, Elizaveta could not sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Skin held ridges and breath became something tangible, even inside that suffocating home. Elizaveta opened those emerald gems after a night devoid of escape and threw her legs from the edge of that dust infested bed, now possessed by twisting sheets.

No one had waked her up and there was no one at her side. No Roderich to yank her back into those ruined waves and layer her always unsuspecting apples in honeyed pressed.

It was cold and lonely and that was all. There were no companions and the sky itself had been washed in grey pigmentation, only bleak and dull rays making their way onto that saddened earth.

The woman clothed herself within a scarlet garment composed of wondrous silk, something her lover had presented to her so many years before. She took no ownership of work clothes, nor did she even have her hands against a gown of simplistic cotton. That Austrian had layered her within the finest of things, and did not require work. There were obligations; there always had been, those chores hovering only breaths from the pair's crowns and attaching to the windows and walls and the ceilings and where ever else attention could adhere to, but Elizaveta had not crouched upon her hands and knees and scrubbed a surface until it glistened for well over several years.

She was a strong woman, determination infecting her crimson essence with as much ease as water. Queens did not live easy lives, simple existences differing from the servants who thrived in the backgrounds of their fantastic portraits. Sometimes they even painted them.

There was even relief within her aching heart, for she did not need to appear to have such worth; no longer would stern and elderly women pull upon her venerated tresses until tears would prick through those pained wells, and no longer would she be required to place perfect amounts of powder upon her demure features, rouge and lip stain and god knows what else.

But despite that droplet of horrid gratefulness, there was nothing worth the regretful trade of her dear Roderich. His base memory brought near sentiment to her resistant attributes. To Elizaveta, that gentlemanly aristocrat was a shimmering golden artifact to a fortunate pauper. She could not ask for a more fantastic love; she would not even know what to place inside that greed saturated inquiry.

Cheeks were wiped clean as that suffocating and misplaced creature exited her room, and for the second time, tried to locate the dining room. Perhaps there would be breakfast.

But upon that journey, there was an interruption, from one of the men at the previous night's dour introduction.

"Elizaveta, Ivan wants to speak with you. I was told to take you to him if you were seen."

"Oh…Of course." Eyes came to stripped feet, uncertain as to what foot wear should envelope those freezing and minute appendages. Then gaze afflicted the soul before her, the only other -to her knowledge- who carried an oaken scalp. "I'm sorry…What was your name again?" the thirst for possible companion was a powerful drive.

"I'm Toris."

"Toris. I see…Is Ivan upset? Should I call him by his first name?"

"That's a question for him. We've all been acquainted a while…And I don't think he's upset. Just surprised you didn't seek him out yesterday, and that no one took you to him. He was so occupied anyway-" Phrase expired in gestation and that pair came to the other's miserable expression. "Don't worry. There's no need to yet."

"Alright. Thank you."

A singular nod. "Follow me. And I would remember how to get to his office. The two most important rooms within this building are that office and the dining room. If you can remember either of those places, you should be fine."

The Hungarian did not exploit phrase, well aware that if she was caught inside a lighter air, there would be slight mirth within her throat. But there was no desire to fill that despaired and mangled silence, so that mismatched pair simply progressed about those halls.

Elizaveta was allowed into that oddly reserved chamber, her accompaniment well behind her, as though he was about to send her plummeting into sacrificial conflagration. Either waited approval patiently, their presence beneath the fist of God himself. But light did not shine for minutes that developed as painful seasons, and either was shattered beneath the girth of apocalypse.

They faced his bureau, the man's head lowered and his face masked beneath a veil of calm blond locks, a pen contained within his massive palm and parchment stretched beneath its procrastinating judgment.

Finally, beams were painted within their direction, seeking helpless flesh as the one whom so owned them cracked his stiffening neck.

And then he rose.

"I'm going to assume you're Elizaveta." Those crystals devoured her as the lam within the jaws of a wolf, probing her expression, her gaze, her very constitution. They stroked through her flowing and unrestrained tresses and they traveled beneath the scarlet cloth hiding her with such frail protection. They kissed her with every filthy intent and they placed her against that temporary stage, expecting harmony to drain from that plump mouth in operatic beauty.

And she could only answer, helpless, "Yes. That's me."

Ivan came to her and held those unclothed palms inside his massive grip, thumbs dominating her dainty knuckles and a wide smile spreading against that visage. Something about this man was simply to smooth, false as a stone polished into a reflective diamond.

Mr. Braginski's frame was well formed, strong brows that sat above heavily lashed intuition, a nose that curved gently outward, as so many other Russians' did, and lips that were fair in size but not too large nor misshapen. Everything found upon that canvas was meant to be there, as luxurious buildings inside a grand city. It simply would not be the same without their boisterous presence.

And his hide was without imperfection, frictionless and lambent, holding the pigmentation of a winter rabbit's fur. Yet, it was in no way unfit. The woman could not imagine that great monster before her holding deeper hue. Those strands were far too light and soft to lace a tanned exterior.

Then, after that poor Hungarian had stood, dumbfounded, dyed glass read her as opened pages of an abandoned and neat diary, as though her entire life her been lied before him to judge and interpret, all stacked upon a shimmering platter.

They had not lied when they told of his very stature being unforgettable.

Elizaveta could not wash the very imagine of those orbs so crystalline and azure from her memory, as though they were a masterpiece forced to hang about her wall, far too heavy to be removed without strong assistance.

His tone reverberated again. "Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm sure you know that I'm Ivan Braginski." Those worried palms were allowed free. "You will be working here now. I don't know what you're good at, but we all have a set list of chores. The women mostly cook and clean and the men chop firewood and do whatever else needs to be done." That attire was regarded a moment. "Please tell me you have something else to wear."

"Oh…No. Roderich only gave me nice clothing and I didn't have to work all too often."

"I'm sure that Katya can allow you to borrow something of hers. There's left over fabric in numerous places inside this home. You can make you own clothing, can't you?"

"Yes. I can."

"Good. For now, you can cook meals with Natasha and clean the bedrooms. Do you enjoy cooking Elizaveta?"

"Yes." The woman analyzed those syllables, which seemed so very uniform and dull. There was no emotion within those answers, never going much further past a few hackneyed sounds.

"Wonderful. Then your days will start in the kitchen. Breakfast is in about half an hour. You should go. Tell me when you're finished with cleaning and I'll find something else for you to do."

And that large man walked away, his rehearsed act well played for those few observers and claimed his post, continuing to birth signatures against dry documents.

The lost woman could not contain her footing as dumb statue, feeling as though a great load had been strewn about her weakened hold without so much as an obligatory greeting.

"Excuse me?"

"Hmm?" The Russian man did not glance to his freshest slave.

"…What do you want me to call you?"

"You may call me Ivan or Mr. Braginski. Whatever you prefer."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

And that Hungarian woman left the dictator's palace, knowing she was the unwelcome peasant begging in the face of her king. Toris took to her side, having nothing to say to that beast with such an intimidating stature.

"Would you like me to show you to the kitchen? I know it's confusing being somewhere new."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you." And even after relief held her as delicate lover, that battered muse was still so close to breaking.

She was uncertain as to why there was such a marred feeling towards that brief meeting. Perhaps because Ivan's words were so very devoid of concern. It was as though he had written them within his mind the moment there was bare awareness of that unfortunate transfer. Elizaveta was living beneath a man who cared nothing for her.

And the taste of loss sat within her mouth. Only memory could bring her those sweet confections that might not be enjoyed again.

She wished Roderich was there.

Tears were held within her shifting lungs.

Then there was the kitchen.

It was a rather large area, a grand station meant for numerous and rushing workers, not the likes of two women preparing a simple meal for a family holding a few extra members. But there was not the mere idea of complaint. Each of them knew raising a voice would not bring about that all mighty change. Only sheer and cutting disappointment.

Natasha was scrambling wildly, as a being caught beneath the threat of execution if that rushing agenda was even partially neglected. Flour laced her apron, the garment mangled past the state of rags and a thin film of sweat layered her brow, utensils busy within her grasps and brows furrowed beneath the anvil-like weight of her determination.

She did not notice Toris or his company.

"Natasha."

Another egg disrupted from dormant slumber.

"_Natasha._"

"What is it Toris? I can't speak right now."

"Well, it's important. Just stop a moment."

"_What?_" Vision latched to the woman dressed in red. "Did she see Ivan dressed that way? Just how did he look at you?"

"Natasha, she's going to make meals with you. So you don't have to rush around this way."

"Did he order her to?"

"Of course he did."

"Oh." Another yolk found residence within the bowl so dosed in beaten ingredient. "That was kind of him. Put an apron on."

Either pair of earthly spheres glanced to one another, mouths desiccating of any sensible comment.

"Are you going to get an apron on or not? Since when do you wear that sort of attire during chores? You look like a spoilt jezebel."

"Natasha, there's no need to be so rude-"

"You're going to ruin your silks."

"I don't have anything else to wear."

"Your lover sent you with a single outfit?"

"No. I only own nice clothing." The urge to send that foolish blond child to the harsh tile was nearly irresistible. Elizaveta wished to rapture those porcelain cheeks with her steady knuckles. Despite appearances, she was a woman who had been taught to inflict harm. "Roderich cared deeply for me. He certainly wouldn't allow me to own such a beaten apron." Breath was difficult to contain, that lost doll ready to sob in anger and sorrow and need to bruise the flesh of the lovely figurine Natasha. "You can call me spoilt, but at least I had a man who cared for me."

There was a definite and tarnished wrath within the other's shifting features. Lips churned in their lack of sharp phrase and without a knife inside her grasping palms to fight back those beginning lacerations, that distraught cook ran from her dismal kitchen.

"Maybe he can come and make you breakfast, then!"

The threshold slammed into its unhappy frame and the articles about the walls shook.

"Natasha!" Toris took two steps towards that shaken porthole and halted, sighing. "I'm sorry about that. She's easily angered…" Those words ceased and attention was given to the misfortunate arrival, who wore silent emotion about her warping expression.

"I'm sorry, Toris. The last few hours have been hard for me." Elegant thumbs acted as the handkerchiefs Roderich would utilize to take Elizaveta from such a conundrum. "I don't mean to cry."

"No…That's alright. We're all homesick." A glance to worn socks for advice. "Listen, you can sit down and think everything out and I'll make breakfast. I've done this before. It's not all too difficult."

"Thank you."

So Elizaveta found her make-shift sanctuary and that kindly personage prepared that nearly finished meal, wishing to create truth of conciliation, but could find none. Either had lost and Toris was well aware that it was a gaping black hole and nothing but time could retrieve one from those freezing depths and the demon's ever starving jaws.

Simply, that nourishment was taken to that dining room glowing in such dour light and another meal was devoured in near silence, all for the growing ring of complaint. It was the second time since Elizaveta had been there that Ivan Braginski had not appeared to that wide table. His breakfast was delivered to him so his presence need not descend those aching flights and travel those stretching halls.

There was always a loyal slave to walk that winding path for him.

Drinking of those ruined surroundings, the Hungarian sank into that abysmal agony that was placed before her view, months before it had actually arrived.

And then she began to work.

And then she began to wish.


	4. Chapter 4

So, Elizaveta began her servitude, making meals and rearranging bedrooms, whether they be inhabited or well emptied. Katya had instructed her to do so, because she was knowledgeable as to what that king desired.

It was far more exhausting than the fresh slave supposed it to be. There was such an abundance of rooms with an abundance of dust, and an abundance to clean. The Hungarian was simply surprised that there were indeed so many phantom chambers for so few. Had the servants ran? Had those places served the mere purpose of guest rooms? Those spaces looked as though they had been occupied at one time, perhaps sometime far earlier and much more blissful. But to glance upon those areas and even fathom that such a palace was once mirthful…No. The entire asylum was kept in a constant state of dour misery. If one was told that such a mansion had ever seen a single shining day, immediate disbelief would strike as potent lightning from an azure sky.

But there was not complaint. Elizaveta knew that her keep would be well earned and earned honestly.

Clothes were allowed to that new arrival in lending by that large breasted woman. There was obvious insight that garments would need to be fashioned at some point soon. But there was hardly time for rest, and any time for short break was used in a near hypnotic sleep, because creating an immaculate home took grand amounts of energy. And such strength was never in gratuitous quantity.

And within a week of being captive inside that gilded tower, Elizaveta finished her work before lunch, having taken no sleep the night before to simply complete that piled task before those breaking fingers, and thus having the remainder of that expansive day, she wondered into the garden, its flesh painted in new born white and its appeal something null.

Of course, even the garden was a horribly dead flat.

But there was not comment, and the tired woman found an emptied bench and scrubbed the snow from its grateful brow, sitting against it only counts proceeding.

The area was quiet, those petit pearl flakes joining their brothers against that repressed grass; it was almost as though they were the dead ash of a volcano, those heavens far too dark and oppressive to allow even a pure snow fall to be so pleasant.

In the distance, Toris and Eduard could be seen moving firewood from a minute and faltering shed. They held the airs of expended men, far too frail and starving to relocate even another twig.

Elizaveta secured her coat around those sagging clothes Katya has allotted her, once again creating hope for either of them.

It did not seem correct that Ivan Braginski was given the bone structure and apparent strength of a fierce bear and only sat within that pleasant office every day, marking documents with his iron brand while the others were forced to arrange heavy and dead limbs created for burning. They had even stocked the cave in which that beast took his daily residence.

Their rooms were still well frigid.

Even Elizaveta's body cried of wallowing ache, bruises seeming to appear against her sorry flesh for no given reason. And she slept as an unholy corpse.

Fingers brushed past the heavy fur of her glorious outer layer, and the woman gone so worn, wrapped in such decadence recalled her lover, her Roderich.

She had not reminded herself of him due to that staggering amount of work, those articles bathing in their dirtied age devouring every sanction of her poor and rushing mind, and there was not space for that beautiful musician, no occupancy for the ephemeral songs that had been so freshly lost. Elizaveta had not yet picked at her healing wounds.

Nor had she bandaged them.

So she sat, the image of her darling Austrian imbedded within her crumbling psyche, blades wishing to ease against his beautiful visage, vision longing to devour those glistening orbs and kindly lips. Appendages begging to capture his entire figure within an affectionate embrace the woman hoped would not meet premature death.

Elizaveta desired to brush her digits past those deepened midnight locks, and to remove those polished spectacles. To kiss that honeyed mark beneath Roderich's well constructed mounds...

She only wished to have her other back, someone she did not know how to function without. It was as losing sight, or voice, or taste. Without that man, the other section of her lonesome soul, Elizaveta was nothing. They had been within one another's presence for such wondrous duration, it was uncertain as to how they should part. Good-bye meant dust. It was flavored in bitterness. It was a phrase with so little meaning, a shallow conciliation.

True farewell was locked within aching stomachs. Because no word could express how much they meant to one another.

The Hungarian woman recalled their wedding day, her figure clothed within untouched lace and flowering silk. And her Austrian within tailored formal attire. He was so handsome. Roderich was always handsome.

They had been wed for their countries. And before then, they had not truly been acquainted, only finding one another occasionally and never speaking more than a few mangled greetings.

But despite marriage to a near stranger, Elizaveta was clothed in joy. Within her palm, there lied a sensible husband, and a gentleman, none the less. What more could a foolish young thing desire? She was giving so much more than her simplistic innocence and her frivolous movements. That great sacrifice was for their very constitution, and completing such nobles acts should be cause for some sort of twisted bliss.

And then, after swallowing expectations as bitter medicine, they began to know one another. Roderich was usually busy with one thing or another, but a point was made of taking time to become familiar with his new wife, and Elizaveta appreciated his made time more than phrase could very well express.

He showed her music; he even taught her to sing and dance. Just as she showed him that gorgeous world beyond his inexperienced welcome mat, those foods and he wondrous appeal of inhabiting such a glowing city.

And they introduced one another to endearment; that unfettered adoration so many wished to hold as glorious riches within their cupped palms.

No longer was obligatory sex had. Love was made. And that caused the pair to fall even more deeply in love with one another. Their arms were entangled, their forms something inseparable and admirable. Trying to isolate them was as trying to rip a tree form its earth by means of only strength.

Not even divorce could hinder that bond.

Neither wanted that ugly separation, the mere idea something foreign. But as they were married for their countries, they were torn from one another's grasps for their countries, even though a constant stream of letters was formed between them, and the Hungarian woman would visit her darling, sometimes for even months at a time.

But now there was true loss. There were no visits, there were no telephone calls lasting numerous hours. There was only parchment lathered in deformed longing, and that primary note had not been received. But Elizaveta knew Roderich had sent her message. That was simply the caliber of man he was.

And those predictable emotions took their birth, chilled palms finding security upon twisting lips as that crystalline substance poured. Numerals collected those salty instances, the owner of that silent outburst trying within all her pathetic might to execute those sobs, and those sentiments and the very lonesomeness itself, the virus that brought each of those relentless symptoms.

Attention was not placed upon dropping shoulders or poorly masked upset. The two men continued their miserable work and the woman only regarded, once again praying that life give them even a fragment of benevolence. Their souls were kind and they did not earn their rotting agony.

And Elizaveta retreated into that numbing edifice, lunch scheduled to arrive within fleeting minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

"Do any of you ever get a break?"

Because Elizaveta had completed cleaning each of those colossal chambers, she was assigned another duty, and the woman found herself upon those hands and knees creating a spotless kitchen floor, with Katya at her side.

"No…" The other's rag violently licked that smooth area. "Hardly ever. Unless you consider sleeping a break."

"No. That's just a necessity."

A mangled stain came from those elderly tiles.

"…I should say something. It's not right that Ivan sits in a comfortable office all day while we're gaining bruises and aches fixing things that don't even need fixing to begin with. What would be a few hours? I haven't even left his home yet. I'm sure we all want to go outside."

"Of course we do. But you can't say anything…"

"And why not?"

"Because…I van is angered easily."

"Well, so what? He can get as angry as he wants to. It doesn't change anything."

"Elizaveta." Katya sat up, spine screaming of bitter stiffness and ill use. "Promise me you won't raise your voice."

"Why not?"

"_Please._ Just promise me."

"Katya, I can't make a promise until you tell me why exactly I need to promise anything in the first place. Why is this so important?"

"Because-"Immediate discomfort enveloped her as a harsh fog. "Because he'll hurt you."

"He'll _what?_ Ivan would hit a woman?"

"Ivan will hit anything that moves. Especially if he doesn't like what it's doing…Just be careful. As long as you do what you're told and manage not to make complaints, everything will be fine. If you're good enough, he might just give you a little time to yourself…You can ask him, but I suggest asking nicely. He'll strike you down like a fly."

And Elizaveta reclined upon her heels, clothed in her filthy socks used only for work, brow well crippled beneath life's persistent girth and lips poised into a troubled pout.

Either glanced to one another.

"Well, how did your other man treat you? What was his name?"

"Roderich…He was always so kind to me. Never once would he dream of causing me pain."

"You were happy there, weren't you?"

"I had never been happier in my life. And I loved him with my entire heart. Now that he's not at my side, I don't know what to do. It's like losing both arms. What _can_ you do after something like that?"

A brief pause. "I'm sorry…I've never been that close to anyone. But I know what it's like to lose. It hurts…" Katya captured that wetted surface for a lengthily duration. "What was it like? Did he buy you flowers?"

"Yes…He did. He was a musician too, and when he had the time, he would play me songs and occasionally dance with me. Roderich was always occupied with one thing or another, but he always made sure to eat supper with me, just like I made sure not to bother him with anything trivial. Because he would solve my problems, even though I didn't ask him to, and even though he was constantly working. I truly adored him; I still do." There was solemn laughter. "I'm already speaking of him like he's dead. He might as well be. I'll never see him again."

"Don't say that! You never know what will happen! Maybe you'll be allowed free in a few years. Don't give up hope. Hope is the only thing any of us have left."

"…I'm sorry."

"No…That's alright. You simply can't afford to give up."

"Thank you, Katya." There was another steady dose of pointless air. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Where are you from?"

"Ukraine." The woman gave a friendly curl. "Why? Is my accent that bad?"

"No! It's just fine. I was curious…Besides, mine is far more atrocious."

"No. It's cute. It even sounds somewhat German."

And to that, Elizaveta released her mirth. "I spoke German more than I did Hungarian. I've lived n Austria so long…Sometimes; when I visited home I would forget how to speak my first language. Isn't that ridiculous?"

Another simper. "Well, if you asked me to speak Ukrainian right now, I would probably take a moment. I swear I've started to think in Russian."

The forming pair continued to speak as they worked, recalling relationships lone executed and the troubles neither could very well share. There was still deep ache that Elizaveta could not present her opinionated voice to that beastly Russian man, but she swallowed such mangled thought, knowing punishment would lead her nowhere but far backward.

And just as that day perished, another was born, and another after that, and then another preceding that. And Elizaveta watched as each of those residents slipped into even further exhaustion, all except for Natasha, who thought it tremendous honor to do such menial work for her endeared Tsar.

One morning, Elizaveta simply did not raise, her body in desperate need of sleep and her flesh left aching, muscles once so strong malfunctioning in hateful spasms.

And she longed for her Roderich, as she almost always did, dreams supplying that well desired untruth and returning her to the glorious arms of her darling Austrian.

Katya tried to tear that poor and diluted woman from those honeyed fantasies, as trying to wake an opium addict from heaven, but only caused lids to pull temporarily from dysfunctional sight. Seconds has burned before those lashes met and the hopeless sleeper had been bathed within Roderich's welcoming flesh.

Elizaveta had tried to rise, but those bones refused cooperation and her mind would not assist her in forcing those workers from their comfortable bunks. She simply could not see past rest. And after twisting in her shattered attempt, she abandoned those pleas, knowing there was no negotiating with broken limbs.

When she finally rose from her wavering ocean of coddling blankets, the clock positioned about her wall read nine-fourteen and immediate rush possessed that once lethargic blood.

They had told her to be awake by six o'clock sharp.

There was not an excuse for her.

So Elizaveta bolted from that chilled doorway once again filling clothing that was not hers and found a mansion gone empty. Katya was not cleaning stairwells or bathrooms or floors or making beds. There was no Natasha to scold her for behaving as such a lazy harlot; Toris was not present to give his kindly and obligatory advice. And there was no Ivan, standing as a soldier and holding that mighty bear claw before her, prepared to send that seemingly frail anatomy clattering about the ruthless floor.

It was horrifying, to have not a single presence marching those stretching halls. The Hungarian did not contain her next job, having finished all she was set to complete the day previously. There were no assignments larger than she, and the near felon was next to go to Ivan for further instruction. Because he knew what exactly it was that was to be done. And he knew where his servants were at all times, as though his very soul was posted about the walls and could detect warmth, wherever it may be.

And she was not at breakfast.

Natasha likely told him when she bought that plate overflowing in lavish necessity, nourishment nearly falling from those delicate porcelain boundaries.

Oh, how she loved him. Even more than the stinking rats caught within her very own predicament. Instead, she worshipped the hawk.

Elizaveta moved towards that horrid office, knowing there was a great symphony to face, and had she not found it, then it would certainly seek her thin flesh with its barbed attention. And its noise would have grown louder, blaring within her ears and causing those poor orifices to bleed.

Toris' words were fresh within her recollection, and it seemed as though she could not find Mr. Braginski's chamber or even the kitchen, where she was meant to go the very instance the sun illuminated that grey sky.

After scrambling nearly ten minutes, the beast's bureau was found, and Elizaveta knocked upon the door with knuckles soft as flakes of ephemeral snow.

"Come in!"

And she did.

"Oh. Look who pulled themselves from their mattress. Tell me, was it trying to devour you?"

"No, Mr. Braginski. It wasn't. I was so exhausted I couldn't even lift up my arms."

"Are you usually so lethargic?"

"No." A sudden surge of rage mashed the woman between hapless teeth. "I've been working extremely hard lately. There are bruises left all over me and I can't even tell you how they got there."

"Really?" Those horrid crystals focused upon her as a lion to the defenseless lamb. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, I'm not lying to you. We're all in pain. I'm amazed any of my other housemates can move."

There was a pause and a slight smirk, as though the man had been waiting for the very first attack so his full strength could be unleashed in combat. "So what the hell is your point, Elizaveta? Did you come here to apologize or simply tell me what I should change?"

"Both."

"Oh! That's great! Step forward, I'd like to see your eyes when you tell me how disgusting I am."

"I wasn't going to-"

"Shut your mouth and step forward. I know what you're going to do. They all have and they've all learned. You're not any different."

And with bitter flavor rotting upon her churning tongue, that foolish slave stepped beneath her superior's blinding spotlight.

Either waited in silent patience.

"Well, go ahead."

"My apologies. It seemed as though you were going to speak." The words were innocent enough, but the tone held obvious heat, a sting that could not be easily quelled, even when the venom had been sucked dry.

"Lean forward."

The woman did not listen, so Ivan stood and struck her hard across the cheek, causing instant burn as though acidic substance had bathed that sore area.

"Fine. Don't. But I suggest you start talking. I'm becoming impatient."

With a palm applying pressure upon that crying flesh, phrase began. "I wasn't going to tell you what a monster you are, but I was going to tell you that we should all have one day off per week. We would work better because we wouldn't be so exhausted and possibly happier." A short duration for calculation. "But you hit me. And only cowards his women. Especially when they've done nothing wrong. You're nothing but a barbarian-"

A strong reprimand to her virgin flank.

"Don't you dare call me a barbarian!"

"_Then what are you?_"

And in some odd consequence the driver fell back into his chair and stared at the servant who so challenged him. Even the men curled away as frightened dogs when he afflicted them with agony. But here was this doll, who did not exhibit fear, even when held in the sickly arms of harsh pain.

"I'm not sorry. I deserve a goddamn break like everyone else around here." A mix of blood and saliva launched from those standoffish lips, birthed against the carpet. "I hope you get run over. Let's see how strong you are against a truck speeding down the road."

The Hungarian left after that, abandoning the other to a hanging lip made sluggish and mouth welling inside argumentation. But despite his instant rage, Ivan would still admit that such action, dirtying his floor and exiting well before she was dismissed, required considerable courage.

He could not cause her to shake.

That passionate beauty was far unlike the others.

Elizaveta stole that day for her own use, only doing as much as attending to her duty within the kitchen. She found fabrics within the ancient closets and she crafted garments, so no longer would that poor Ukrainian be forced to share something already in such meager supply.

Each of them studied that bloodied face when she took her spot proudly amongst her new brothers and sisters, a bent kind of admiration falling towards that fearless victim. It was a rite of passage, to be subjected to punishment by that foul tempered ruler. Elizaveta was one of them in that regard, but she remained unthawed, still so powerful in her mere constitution. She had even spit upon his floor, an action that spread as rapid conflagration made into rumor. It was likely that Ivan had complained of her. It was likely he called upon one of them to remove her saliva, mixed with such potent substance there would be a fetid stain had it not been cleaned.

That stubborn Hungarian had created an enemy very few would volunteer to have.

But she did not care.

If a small portion of freedom was earned for them, that warrior would hold her enemies near to those swords.

And after glancing about her sullied flesh, they asked her if she was alright. They asked how hard she was reprimanded and how intense the discomfort was. They asked her what she had done.

And she answered, "I spoke my mind and he lost his temper."

Nothing more was directed to that venerated muse. They simply ate the dinner she had prepared for them.


	6. Chapter 6

She took in that swollen layer and lifted her chin higher within that mirrored realm. Those bruises declared her as something of a foolish hero; the woman who simply did not know how to contain her sharpened ideals and well bred opinions. Those magenta wounds were as two metals displayed within a proud trophy case, the prizes won after a battle long fought, gold for blood well lost.

It was sensitive, those mangled pigments and that hideous laceration, the former queen wielding such unfettered sacrifice unable to sleep; rolling upon either side and causing such jolting punishment. Lids would peel back in screaming agony.

But there was not a concern for such petty matters. Elizaveta was proud of the swollen painting left upon her once smooth flesh, knowing that she has not backed away from that aggressive dragon leaving flames to lick at her susceptible toes.

Even though she had been burned.

But it truly held no pertinence. That once passionate and loving soul had left its shell the moment those grasping fingers were torn from the other half, that phantom residing in Austria, devouring memories and surviving only meagerly in slim hope.

After examination, that shivering figure was clothed in the outfits crafted only the day before.

They were far from beautiful. Elizaveta could not transmute gold from simplistic dust and the very ash she had been supplied with was not something worth containing. Those fabrics wore ugly prints loudly about their absurd hides and cried in shameless age. There were hideous as they were obnoxious, and no where could that flustered seamstress find even a scrap of higher quality.

Of course not.

The good had already been extracted, as an orange disintegrated to its unfortunate pulp, and one cannot expect nourishment from a lack of those necessities and a very late arrival.

They had all been there longer; she knew they had.

Elizaveta constrained those once liberal tresses with a battered scarlet sash she had found amongst those beaten cloths, wishing to withhold those gorgeous follicles for a lengthily time. They got in the way when the woman was not happy within her leisure.

And usually, when she was indeed at leisure, they were secured into a beautiful fashion.

Roderich made damn sure his darling Lorelei resembled something of a duchess, whether it be in simple dress or the mere appearance of that unruly and bustling garden. Roses were crafted of lengthily stems.

And just as she had previously, the Hungarian forced herself from elderly sentiment seeming to bathe in fresh ash, and moved to the present; the future, that beastly man awaiting her. So he could give her work. So he could assign purpose to those demure shoulder blades.

She stood inside his glorious office, kept warm by firewood and poor Toris' sweat, and she remained in patience, anticipating his gaze to afflict her, to connect to that strong constitution and those crippling marks.

Finally, he did. "You have a letter. From Roderich." An envelope was pushed forward against that polished oaken surface. "If you want to write a reply, let me know. I have paper and seals and whatever else you may need. And when you're finished you can leave your response on my desk. I'll send it out."

"Why can't I deliver it myself?"

"No one is allowed outside without my permission. They've tried to run too many times. So it's gotten to the point where I have to regulate what comes in and what goes out. But don't worry. I don't really care about letters back and forth. Well…Until something troublesome arises…"

"I wonder why they tried to run."

Ivan placed a near sarcastic curve upon his wide lips. "Listen. I understand that you're angry-"

"Oh, _really?_"

A finger was protruded into the air. "And I want to apologize."

"Let's hear it then."

"I thought about what you said. And you're right. Only cowards hit women. So I apologize about the bruises. If you like, you can get some ice to quell the swelling. Also, if you would like a break, you can ask for one. I'll give you a few hours every week to have to yourself. I'm sorry there was such a misunderstanding."

Elizaveta only regarded that expression with unmovable doubt. "I want to go outside. I don't want to run. Where would I go? Back to Austria?"

"No. But you would go away. Your Russian is good enough to get you just about anywhere. You don't have to go back to Austria to be gone."

"I'm not going to run."

"I don't trust you. If you'd like to go sightseeing so badly, I'll come along. But no one is allowed out alone."

"If you leave this home, they can run far more easily."

"Oh, Elizaveta. You have no idea how afraid they are. That poor Raivis quivers whenever he's within hearing distance of me. You don't think I know that? I do. They've tried. Not once has it ended well."

"But if they can essentially run when you leave this place, then what's the difference of letting them out? It seems to me like they can go out whenever they please. We really only see you once a day, if even that. It's unnecessarily strict, especially since it has never worked before. How difficult is it to pick up that very telephone and call the police? Regardless of the means, they return in the end. And if no one had ever succeeded, why would anyone make an attempt? It's suicide."

"Why don't you shut your mouth? Rules are rules and they exist for a reason. Perhaps I don't like wasting time with making calls and reclaiming things that should have never left. If no one leaves, I know where they are, and you can believe me, they wouldn't dare take a step from that front door without asking me first. It's not hard to figure out. Perhaps you should think things through before running your mouth and sputtering out whatever just pops into your mind. It might help you."

Elizaveta stared sharpened daggers into that Russian's pallid flesh, cursing in a wide mix of Hungarian and German with fists clenched into uncomfortable wads. "You're nothing but hideous."

"How sweet. Come get your note so you can leave my office. I don't want to talk with you anymore. As lovely as all that jargon is."

"It's not jargon! Russian is by far the ugliest language on the face of the earth!"

And that precious manila gem was held into the air, a child dangling from a tower's orifice. "I'll throw your letter into the fire. I could care less of how much it means to you." That mere existence was hung by Ivan's decisive and thin thread. "Hurry up before I make up my mind."

And the angered woman did, claiming that glistening and clean article as though it was composed of gold and polished stones. It was something far too wondrous to adopt flame against its perfect hide, and the intended thief took her prize poised in painful necessity and exited as though the dictator once taking ownership of that wondrous parchment would demand its presence to return.

The bandit left profitless, with tears devouring her burning vision.

Roderich's letter was torn open, that pathetic shell stripped from its simplistic bone in a matter of mere moments. Those innards spilled as nectar from an overflowing sieve and the woman holding that fantastic collection examined them with heavy sight.

He had asked her how everything was and how everything was progressing; how she was treated and who exactly was it that she was living with. The entire two pages he had composed were completely centered about her, and how severely lonely it was without her presence to throw light into that overbearing darkness. It made her feel uneasy, having to think her simplistic consciousness had so much control, but Elizaveta felt the exact same way about her darling Roderich, and had she actually held the time to craft their first message, those phrases and ongoing statements would have mirrored his, the only difference being the direction of those silvery words.

Elizaveta felt as the broken link to that once blissful chain, never again meant to be connected to her other half, who was just as fatally battered.

The woman birthed careful reply, pen scratching once virgin parchment in German and lacing that needed communication in words of adoration. The phrases, 'I truly miss you' and, 'I love you' could be spotted numerous times, in any of their differing appearances.

Once the envelope had been filled to its girth, the author of that blossoming and passionate sentiment allowed its outer layer an address as well as her own location, leaving it unsealed and still open. The fresh and emotional cadaver lied upon her ancient desk, and would be sent later, that Hungarian rebel unwilling to speak to that demanding overlord.

And it was then that life within that Soviet constitution returned to bitter normality, devoid of all plausible excitement. Elizaveta returned to her longings and her physical labor.

Then days past and the woman found herself inside that kitchen, working at the side of the ever frustrated Natasha.

They did not send speech to one another. It was assumed that the angered and naïve youth would take offense to any other woman in her short territory, and even attempts at friendship were decapitated and burned, gasoline in a mixture of backhanded compliments and base neglect.

The brunette took wonder as to why exactly Toris seemed to have such a loyal affection to that terrible succubus, giving her kind observation and always taking her side at every meal. He would hold her dainty hand, taking it within his own and running that calloused thumb over her silken flesh, as though a great and polished stone had been donned to his sullen hands, its worth something untold. Those used and borrowed blades would kiss to her knuckles, the other appendages; sometimes, Toris' poor numerals would flirt with the siren's demure wrist, those sweet emeralds admiring her and those lips, chapped by working inside such a frigid climate, would convert into the most affectionate of smiles.

And Natasha would smile back in most cases, seemingly from obligation, crystals holding not a fraction of the raw sentiment the other held for her very image.

Toris was infatuated with that foolish child and the curious newcomer could simply not understand why. She knew she was not mistaken. She had devoured Roderich's beautiful gaze in the very same fashion. And he had given her such taken glances as well, affection within every portion of him as potent alcohol.

But, as most instances, the inquiry was simply left as dust within an urn. Some portion of knowledge would be gained in due time.

"Elizaveta…"

"Yes?"

"Bring me the cinnamon. It's in the spice cabinet."

"Oh; yes! Of course, master."

Natasha simply brushed the other's comment from careless shoulders and the portals were opened, revealing an entire world of meager spice, the containers had nearly been emptied and hardly took up as much room as they implied, leaving vast voided space in every row. (If there indeed _were_ rows.) And tucked within that lonesome corner at the mere company of the desired spice was a large and uninhabited jar. It looked as though it had once been utilized for pickling, but retired the moment there was nothing remaining _to_ pickle, and then abandoned to age in a destitute cavity saturated in cobwebs and waning supply. The cinnamon was removed, along with that shining container, the residue of years wiped from its still luminescent hide.

Ingredient was tossed to the one whom so requested it, offering a glance to the find.

"What is that?"

"A jar. What else would it be?"

Natasha gave those harsh eyes to her dish. "Why did you take that out? You can't use it for anything. _Are you going to eat from it?_"

"Of course I can use it for something. It's a container. There's numerous ways to use it."

"Well, you do as you please. I don't care if you collect a dusty piece of trash. Just be certain it doesn't get in the way."

Elizaveta did not raise her voice at first. "Does anyone actually enjoy speaking to you? I'd be dumbfounded if you could even name one person."

There was not a reply.

That mismatched couple continued on with their obligations.

After breakfast was had, Elizaveta took a short collection of seconds and stowed that newly rescued treasure upon her rotting bureau. A corner of that still unsent reply was secured beneath that polished glass and the owner of either object exited, aware of the proceeding task.

It was uncertain as to what that marvelous holder would be ordained to keep, but a purpose for those shined barriers and vacancy would arise. Possibilities flipped throughout Elizaveta's mind. Perhaps coins or pencils and pens or taffies or pieces f jewelry holding some bare amount of worth. It could ingest most anything minute and collectible.

And Elizaveta scrubbed, thinking of chance; that jar giving her hope in a strange proportion. It was hers. It was something that was beneath her jurisdiction and her law. It would do as she bid it. Knowing that gave certain and controlled joy.

Perhaps it could even be utilized to protect Roderich's replies.


	7. Chapter 7

Elizaveta could do nothing bur stare at the sight placed before her widening lashes, lips gaping and blood in steady disbelief.

There they were, the door opened wide, slamming into one another without a single droplet of regard for the world contained outside their own personal spheres.

Ivan had Natasha by the ankle, an arm wrapped around those naked shoulder blades as he trusted harshly, his own body lacking a single shred of fabric to shield it from the cool air.

The girl herself was still partially covered, those skirts pulled past her petit hips and those buttons undone to her stomach, thus freeing those moving breasts and loosening the fabric about her.

Loud moans were tearing from her pleasured mouth and eyes were clouded with ecstasy, palms searching the other's muscles as if in pursuit of something beyond value.

And Ivan took the same sort of euphoric expression, his pale flesh and glistening within the morning sun, busy at work and those pushes digging deeply into that helpless child with her legs spread so wide.

In an odd and inexplicable occurrence, Natasha even appeared somewhat innocent, that occupied tavern only holding a few blond and curling hairs. If she had not been crying in such blatant satisfaction, one would think her to be a virgin, those hands placed around the man's moving anatomy something even endearing. The way her lovely palms secured such random patched of skin…It was easily seen that she was infatuated. Those wails were centered on affection, not only physical attraction.

And there was Ivan, who was simply performing a pleasurable act with no bond behind those merciless bucks and those clearly audible gasps.

Suddenly, their forms stopped and came to rest, Elizaveta nearly running from her unwanted duty of witness. She knew she had observed far too long, despite their careless presentation. Now there was certain confusion, not only towards that unsuspected pair, but to her very own veins, which rushed with essence as though she had been the one contained beneath that monstrous tsar. Moisture had formed between her thighs in such quick pace, and her mind wondered to Roderich, who would always be the cause of such sudden arousal.

The eavesdropper was reminded of those kindly hands all about her figure, his experienced tongue drawing handsome lines against her nipples, her stomach, and then that vulnerable opening.

In that short minute of unexpected sight, the woman had been given sordid appetite and her darling Austrian was not there to care for her, to make such indecent urges vanish and don such perpetual bliss.

So she ignored them, going to work with a bothered visage and an entirely new legion of secrets.

Of course, protective masks were not easily made.

Elizaveta had her duties with Katya that day, either cleaning those horrid restrooms with their cloths with brimming pales of violently frigid water, which had eventually turned a grayish brown due to such rigorous slavery. As they allowed fetid liquid down the accepting drain, that Ukrainian placed an understanding touch against the other's shoulder, fingers gently wading at her collarbone.

"What's been bothering you?"

Those brows only knitted, a response not easy to pick from that unending mess of mangled syllables.

"Did you see Ivan and Natasha?"

"How did you know?" Instant shock overthrew Elizaveta's eyes.

"The whole house knows. You can hear them just about anywhere. It's always amazing how loud they are."

"But how could Natasha do that? I thought Toris-"

"Oh, no…Poor Toris is the only one who won't accept it. He always pins those horrible moans to me. It's sad how much he loves Natasha. He's far too kind to be treated with such disrespect. Especially after what he's done for her."

A considerable pause. "What has he done?"

"Loved her unconditionally. I've seen him just take Natasha into his arms and refuse to let go, like he can make her love him back by holding on long enough. In the spring he brings her roses from the garden and always tells her that he adores her. Love notes too…Natasha made me read one once, 'Look at how sappy he is,' she said. It's sad."

"That's _horrible_. But even so, why would she go after someone else? And Ivan none the less."

"She's obsessed with him. Natasha has been ever since she looked him in the eyes. And that means she does anything Ivan asks of her, not even considering the fact that he could be using her. Of course, we all do what we're told. It's not as if there's a choice…But." Brows dipped in agitation, and that bucket filled once again. "There's so much in this home that simply isn't correct. Nothing ever changes."

Elizaveta allowed clean water into her container as well, unsure of how to assign those syllables of comfort to the correct molds. So, she gave a thoughtless inquiry. "Has he ever made you…"

"Of course he has." A solemn look came upon Katya's face. "I didn't want to. But in this place, you do as Ivan says and never ask questions or complain. You need to be careful, Elizaveta. You could end up in the same position. You're lovely, and I've seen everyone admiring your hair at some point or another. It's even pretty when it's up that way." Lips contorted into something unsatisfied. "It's easy to get lost in the insanity."

"I'll be careful…I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You don't have a reason to."

And they went on turning dingy surfaces to shining pearls.

Elizaveta felt it difficult to even consider Natasha in the same light, having witnessed so much in such a short duration. It was not only that stupid child, but Toris. Poor Toris…The Hungarian could tell he was a kind man with a heart composed of shimmering gold. And in no way did he earn such a horrid partner; who would so blatantly commit unfaithful acts with the door wide open! It was as though Natasha wished the world become an audience to her naked performance against that stark and battered stage.

It was disgusting.

And Ivan was not to be without blame, but it seemed that Natasha had began that terrible chain by simply not raising her voice. Although why would she be expected to? If she was indeed so deeply in love with Ivan, why would there be any thought in accepting those touches?

Regardless, it was horrid to look at those housemates in the eyes. They all knew. They knew that Natasha was a filthy harlot and they knew that Toris was turned from that horrid truth.

It was as though that guest had unearthed an entire conspiracy they had all been participating in without even an inkling of hesitation.

Certainly, working with that paranoid adulteress became severely more difficult. Natasha noticed how things had all so suddenly melded to change. And in her usual selfish way, she threw pots from their homes upon the flame, staring at the woman who so opposed her.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Stop looking at me that way! Like I'm a roach of a rat or something beneath you! You don't know what I've been through and you have no right to judge me or my actions!"

Elizaveta simply marched to a nearer proximity and struck the girl hard across the face, leaving abundant rouge.

"You're young, so I suppose you have an excuse for being so stupid. But you have no right to lie to Toris just because you love someone else. If you care for Ivan, go to him. But don't allow that kind man to keep holding your hand at dinner and giving so much of his heart. I see how he looks at you. That's not fair and it's not right. I don't care where you've been or what you've had to do. Using someone who is so sweet and loyal to you is nothing but horrid, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Natasha only stared, those words sinking in as though she had just ingested them.

"I don't understand why you're so cruel to me. I would be your companion if you were kinder. There's no reason for you to be throwing tantrums like a child."

And the girl, who was still a perfect fool, only secured her bottom lip as though she was near to sharpened tears.

"Clean up this mess. I'll come back when you've calmed yourself. And if you like, we'll talk."

Elizaveta left her counterpart to her own conundrums and once again drifted into the garden, finding one of those several characters in question.

Toris had stopped his work and sat down upon that pleasant stone bench. At the sound of that opening door, he had happened to glance at the intruder, finding only that Elizaveta.

"Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were Ivan. You won't tell him that's I'm resting, will you?"

"Of course I won't. I like to come out here myself…" And she joined him, immediate sympathy forming within her frames.

They glanced to one another a long moment, a message scribed between them neither could comprehend.

So simply, the woman took that abused soul into a weighty embrace, her head resting adjacently to his and those arms securing chests together tightly.

Slowly, Toris returned the favor in a wave of harsh uncertainty, allowing his own being to fall into that odd muse, that temple relaxing against hers.

"Thank you, Elizaveta." They did not separate. "But why are you hugging me?"

"Because you're such a wonderful person. You're not treated correctly. And it's wrong."

"Oh…Thank you, I suppose."

There was not progression of limbs for long minutes, the mismatched pair simply basking in the mere support provided. They did not know one another well and they did not need to. Basic and bare affection was made from hardship, and either felt those shock waves as though they were contained against fault lines. Elizaveta held suffering in her loses, and Toris adopted it with his undying adoration for someone who may never return that flourishing sentiment.

It was pleasant to have any sort of bond.

And when they separated, the newest family member retracted to the innards of that grand institution, issuing her goodbyes to the one taking his shortened break within that freezing realm.


	8. Chapter 8

The lid of that jar was unscrewed, resting against the surface of that rusting bureau and a small fraction of parchment was torn from a larger body.

Elizaveta claimed her pen and etched gently into that virgin flesh, 'I wish Toris was treated with more respect.' Once that mark had been donned, the bearer of that odd message was folded in half and the cadaver was dropped into that once emptied vat, the cap replaced and that cell locked inside one of those numerous and barren drawers.

Elizaveta had written that haphazard note in Russian, uncertain as to why. Perhaps it gave that sad prayer purpose. Because if someone has indeed read it, there would be purpose granted. It was more than her so called lunatic jargon. Perhaps because she had sold a small portion of herself, the same portion was lost when existence was cast to a new center, that core being Ivan Braginski.

Her hand claimed the letter once contained beneath that vacant urn, and vision bathed it. It should have been sent earlier; she knew. But time could not be secured within her soaking hands, and whatever hours she had were lavish in servitude.

Naked feet led her through those great halls, that manila beauty nearly searing lacerations into her sullen finger blades. Guilt possessed her as a malevolent demon, and the mere calculation of damaging Roderich gave her cause to harsh punishment.

And punishment appeared before her, signing his idiotic protocol and mumbling incoherent nonsense only his own comprehension could translate.

"Hello, Elizaveta."

"Hello, Mr. Braginski."

"What is it?"

"I have this letter…" Her emeralds kissed to that frigid floor. "And I want to go out."

"My conditions haven't changed."

"I didn't expect them to."

"Then where are we going?"

"I don't care. But if I have to spend another minute in this hell hole, I'm going to scream."

"Good. Because if I have to spend another minute reading these goddamn papers, I'm going to rip my hair out." Another document branded. "We can drop your letter off when we're out." The man rose from his prison. "Maybe we can go see a film or get something to eat."

"This isn't a date."

"I know that. I only suggested either of those things because I really do want to see a film and I'm tired of your awful cooking."

Elizaveta simply glared.

"You should see your face." The Russian laughed, giving the woman one of those wide and severely convincing simpers. "I'm kidding. Your cooking is fine." His outfit was straightened by powerful hands. "Get your shoes on. We'll go now."

"Alright. Thank you…"

"Oh, what now?"

"_I said thank you._"

Another grin admonished in foul amusement. "I can feel you cringing."

"You should."

Either moved towards those doors, encrusted with their ice, and Elizaveta located trustworthy boots contained so close to her chaperone's pair. Never had she laid gaze against such gigantic shoes. For a moment, she was required to marvel at them in a sort of twisted amazement, as well as the appendages made to inhabit them.

"What? It's not my fault." Those massive palms forced those hallowed shells over their ordained flesh.

The woman did not comment, only wondered who would tailor such tremendous articles. And then a curve overthrew her stubborn visage. "You could house a family of five in one of those things."

"I wonder how many you could fit in your trousers."

"Not anymore than you could cram into that repulsive mouth."

They stared at one another, leather housing chilled feet.

"Something gives me the impression that you don't like me, Elizaveta."

"I wonder where you got that idea."

"I just don't know."

They descended into that barren world without word.

It had been weeks since that woman inhaled bitter air and laid her eyes upon the land so wrapped within its pearl coat. It was void as well as beautiful. There was nothing untouched by that great legion of white. Not even that horrible pair could avoid winter's drowning embraces.

"Is it this cold in Austria?"

"No…"

"Well, you'll get used to it. Spring will be nice."

"…Do any flowers grow here?"

"Of course..."

"Hmm…"

Ivan glanced to his polished boots and then directed attention to the grey face of all those sobbing clouds, their expressions so soft and so bound in turmoil.

"The post office isn't far from here. We'll deliver the letter and then decide what to do."

The woman inhaled deeply, subzero touch engulfing her lungs. "Why did you say that word?"

"Which word?"

"_Austria._ Now you've made me think of him. It hurts."

"Why?"

"_Why?_ I'm madly in love with that man and he's gone. _Why? Is it possible to ask a stupider question?_"

"Is it stupid for me to drag you back into that house and put you to work? If you're going to be so goddamn unpleasant, we'll go in. I didn't have to agree to this, and you're lucky to be _this far _from _that door._" That mighty finger assaulted those mocking thresholds. "I'm trying to be polite to you. _Yes._ I know you don't like me. _I get it._ And you know what, I don't like you either. But this doesn't have to be so horrible. _We're adults._ I would expect we can have a conversation without behaving like children."

Elizaveta devoured those azure crystals, taken within their intelligence and their barbed wire.

"I'm sorry that you're so unhappy here. But what do you want me to do? I didn't make you come here. My superiors did. I can't send him here; I can't send you back. But I can take you outside at least every once in a while. I can allow you a break. However, I can't disobey the rules; I can't allow you to go by yourself. It's the way things are, and I'm sorry if being around me makes you so _severely_ upset, but there's nothing I can do."

The Hungarian could not bear to look into those angered orbs, knowing there had been pain inflicted. Not only by her relentless hand, but by so many others.

"Listen; I'm sorry I hit you. If you're still upset. _I'm sorry._ But I can't take that back. I'm at least trying to make it up to you. Because surprisingly enough, I know what it's like to be in a new place and how hard it is to say goodbye. _I know._ But unfortunately, I can't change anything that's happened. I can't turn back time and I can't pick you up and take you to Austria. But I'm doing my best, alright?"

"Alright…"

The Russian man only lidded those jewels, a sigh of materializing before his hackneyed lips. "Come on. It's cold. Let's go to the post office."

Nothing was expected from the smaller party's mouth.

Either traveled into that bustling city, tears causing the back of Elizaveta's throat to collapse. They were birthed within her glassy eyes and nearly froze because her benevolent sleeve would not take them from her visage. Despite those droplets of emotional discomfort, the expected sobs did not pour from her coiling tongue. She swallowed them in their eternity, as she had with her duty and all her sour acceptance.

When they stood before that bustling edifice, the message given to Ivan's strict surveillance and he traveled inside that front room without phrase to his poorly selected company.

And the saddened creature stood outside those opening and shutting barriers, truly not wishing to follow.

Instead, her feet remained planted within all that churning frost, sinking within realization. Ivan had been correct, and Elizaveta held fault. It did not matter that her internal state was at certain anarchy. There were attempts at kindness and each time, they were shot down, throat slit and hot blood draining against that cruel snow.

He was trying.

And he did not have to agree to such ill treatment.

The towering one returned in quick minutes.

Again, their stares met, the woman's infested with the remnants of all her broken heart.

"Oh God. _Don't cry_, please."

"I'm not…" the fluid as taken from her cheeks by one of those weighty sleeves. "I'm sorry for being unkind. You're right. My cruelty won't change a thing, and you _are_ trying." Attention died within the ice. "I'll stop being so immature. I appreciate being allowed out."

"Alright; apology accepted. Just don't cry. Promise me you won't cry."

"I promise you, I won't cry."

"Good. Thank you." Those strong brows bent. "So what would you like to do?"

"Perhaps we can get something to eat…I honestly don't care."

"Well. I'm hungry. And if you don't care, then we should take that suggestion."

A slight smile and a nod.

The Russian and the Hungarian found a lovely restaurant in the middle of that glorious town and took placed inside it, creating their orders, receiving their drinks and casting odd glances to one another through each transaction. There was certain and uncomfortable obligation to begin conversation. It was silly to be out with someone and find absolutely nothing to say to one another.

So they avoided staring.

Ivan was the first to raise inquiry, after drinking from the glass poised against that gleaming table top. "How did you learn Russian so well?"

"Roderich paid for my lessons and bought me several books to assist me. Some of them were even stories. I would try and read sections from my novels, and when I needed to look something up, I would use my dictionary." There was slight pleasure as well as pain in thinking of that sweet Austrian. "I told him I never needed so much. But it didn't matter. Reading books truly helped me remember words and grammar…Do you know any other languages?"

"Well. Nothing you wouldn't really expect. Some Ukrainian and even some English, but…Not much more than that."

"English?"

An affirmative movement. "Yes. It wasn't my choice. I was told it would be a good language to know."

"Oh, I see." Elizaveta took a sip of the coffee she had requested. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Russian. But only because I don't have to think about it."

A quick and pretty burst of amusement. "I can understand that. I honestly hated learning German before I got into Austria. I hated having to stop and think and say, 'What the _hell_ was that word?' I felt stupid."

Ivan smiled. "I know. I'm lucky Katya didn't laugh at me every time I messed up on something or other."

Then there was silence.

"I'm sorry I told you I didn't like you…That's not necessarily true."

"Necessarily?" The woman kept her lips from bending into a bemused grin. "It's alright if you don't like me."

"No. I haven't gotten to know you yet. It's stupid to say that you like or hate something when you haven't really gotten past a first impression. It's like saying you speak a language when you know six of seven words."

"I can agree with that…I'm sorry I've been rude. Regardless of what you've done, it doesn't make me any less wrong." Another drink. "So I don't necessarily not like you. How about that?"

"Well, I don't necessarily not like you either."

"Wonderful."

And they conversed, and they ate, and they returned, gaining certain gaze form most everyone inside that busied household. They had noticed Elizaveta had gone; they had noticed the loss of Mr. Braginski's presence; they had noticed the missing shoes, as they noticed those odd simpers written against either canvas. They were welcomed back and Ivan took to his lonesome office, while Elizaveta took to her chores.

Nothing was said, although curiosity peaked as a handsome cherry developing upon the once broken tree.

But as it always had, life progressed and dust was cleaned.


	9. Chapter 9

Arms were wrapped around her in utter admiration, lips touching and bodies moving in unison. The man moaned softly into the woman's parted lips, her eyes closed and her mind set upon another's bed.

"Natasha…"

"Hmm…"

It was impossible to measure exactly how much that Lithuanian man adored his faux lover. He found that pale flesh something wondrous, an escape from bitter servitude, and that plump mouth far beyond desirable. He took her into his arms whenever the opportunity presented itself, showering that porcelain figurine within his delicate presses and allowing affection to flow inside his veins simply as blood.

Toris did not question Natasha when they came together for the first time and she was not a virgin. Part of that kind heart did not want to quell that curiosity and the other section simply did not care. A promise had been made to done sentiment unconditionally, and Toris was not a soul to shatter precious dictations.

And questioning such a matter only wrought sour disappointment. He was intelligent enough to hold that fact as true.

It did not stop him from adoring the way she smiled, her body language, her eyes, her words, her base appearance. Whenever they would come near to one another, the scent of stolen perfume would drift to the man's starving senses and kiss him with that undying longing. There was not importance placed upon why Natasha stole those little scents, nor for whom. The lover always assumed those pleasant airs were for his own taste.

Deeply, he wanted to bring her a bouquet of actual roses and an entire container of that sweetened perfume, but none were allowed outside that horrid barrier and those idiotic buds only hatched in spring. That is the reason why the scents were always stolen. Natasha would take from Katya, and even slip past those heavy doors occasionally, having smuggled a few rubles for her own use. Truly, it was the only barrier the possessive child selected to shatter.

"Aaah… Toris."

Palms wrapped around the man's back, that bruised and beaten skin held beneath soft flesh. Orifices were pressed together and tongues twined ad ribbon within an ordinary braid.

A gentle trust was administered.

"Ah-!"

Natasha hated to moan his name. She desired her Ivan, _her Vanya_. She wished he would take her as that larger man did, with needy pushes and an aggressive mouth. He would leave such mal formed love bites against her pallid hide, and there was not even an attempt at hiding those fetid little welds. The first instance the infatuated fool had found them, he thought his poor darling had been injured.

"Did you fall down the stairs? You're alright, aren't you?"

"Oh…Yes. But it didn't hurt for all too long. I feel better now."

"Truly? I'll kiss them for you."

"You're sweet, Toris."

She hated how he was so slow with his love making, always spending so much time allotting those honeyed presses to her neck and her collarbone and always so painfully emotional. Passion absorbed him as a foul sprit and concern devoured him as a monster taking to hapless prey. Questions were always entering that once still air. "Are you enjoying this?" Or, "Am I hurting you?" Or, "Please, tell me how you like this…"

She hated how moist it made her.

She hated how much she actually enjoyed it.

She hated that Ivan could not engender the same sensations.

Sometimes she wished he was gentle too.

"Ahh…"

"Hmm…Are you getting closer?"

Words came in pleasures tones, and a hand touched to the man's warmed visage.

"Ah…Yes."

"Harder."

The obedient creature listened.

And moment later, Natasha cried in her shameful euphoria, grasping the body layering her own and pretended those thin ribs were the thick constitution of her owner, pretending opposing and sweet testimonies were the other's, and pretending that release was not the product of all of Toris' wondrous labor.

He landed at the side of his young woman and stole her into an immediate embrace.

"Aah…I love you."

"I love you too."

She hated how she had to lie.

And in swallowing that bitter untruth, her mounds attached to the other's, organs once again leaving their taverns and knotting together as impassioned thread.

"Mmm…"

"You like to kiss me, don't you Toris?"

"Of course I do. You're beautiful." In relaxation, a curious palm collapsed upon her chest and immediately retreated. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No…" Sense was dragged back to those breasts, worn pads touching to the valley between those two piles of soft flesh. "I like it when you touch me there. You can play with me."

"Thank you…"

And for extending seconds, those weathered fingers explored that satin exterior, finding small blossoms and rolling them between blades. "Do you like this?"

"Hmm…It's nice."

After ceasing that sudden urge, the worn thing stopped and simply engulfed that girl's anatomy with his very own, once again saturating that youthful visage in honeyed attention as those two figures collapsed against one another.

"Toris, can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Where do you think Ivan and Elizaveta were yesterday?"

"I don't know…" They came a little nearer in proximity. "Why?"

"It bothers me. I don't like that Hungarian bitch. She's so obsessed with that- _Austrian._ And then she takes an entire day out with someone new only a few weeks after arriving here. Don't you think it's suspicious?"

"Well…Not necessarily. Maybe she had to run an errand."

"But what errand would she possibly run for _hours on end?_"

"I really don't know, Natasha." A tinge administered to the woman's cheek. "Why don't you ask her yourself? Or you could ask Ivan. I don't know why there would be any disturbance if you just inquired…"

"Hmm."

"Don't worry. It's probably nothing. I thought they hated one another anyway…" A press of that ecstatic emotion, and emeralds were hidden beneath peachy curtains. "I'm tired…"

"Don't go to sleep…I want to make love with you again…" There was starvation for distraction.

"I'm sorry." Exhausted crystals read the ones set across from them. "Can we make love when I wake up?"

"No…"

"Why?" The man was going to sleep.

"Because…" Natasha was given a kiss and the admirer was left tranquilized, only exploiting the words, "I love you."

"I love you too…"

And so, the naked doll was left to her faux darling's arms, and managed to close her eyes as well. She did not dream; nor did she rest. She only calculated and put together those situations within her mind.

There were visions of Ivan and Elizaveta holding hands, touching lips, removing their clothes in some back room of an unidentifiable edifice. She created the woman accepting flowers from that handsome Russian and smiling in beaming light. Ivan gave her chocolate and pretty clothes and most anything that was requested. He gave her _perfume_.

Of course, Natasha murdered such thoughts, well aware that they were well irrational. Still, if there was possibility, it _could_ have occurred, and all of those articles, the perfume and the chocolate and the broaches and those luxurious clothes- they were intended to be for her own barren and frigid hands.

Natasha loved him. No; she _adored_ him.

That Hungarian did not earn his attention. Not in the least.


	10. Chapter 10

They worked. And Natasha stared, beating bullet holes into the other woman's flesh. At first, Elizaveta did not raise her voice to those assaults; she did not unleash her diatribes; she accepted it.

And finally, those blue crystals were torn open as though they were simple paper.

"What is it now, Natasha?"

"Where were you with Ivan?" There was not a wasted moment.

"Oh goodness. You really are just a girl. Is this your first time being in love? How terribly _sweet_."

"_Tell me where you were._"

"I was simply out. We went to the post office and then we had lunch. And before you lose your mind, no, we're not friends in the least. I simply asked to leave this home and Mr. Braginski told me he was obligated to come with me. If you'd like to angry, be angry with him. I didn't ask to be accompanied."

Natasha said nothing.

"You shouldn't hate me. I don't feel the same way towards you; I just wish you were less of a fool."

"I don't hate you. You're a threat. Especially now. We're rivals, if anything."

"_What?_ Rivals? _Why?_ Because I'm a woman?" The Hungarian rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in Ivan. I already have a man, and he loved me more than anyone else in this entire world. And I adore him just as much. I don't _need _to steal, especially something that isn't even yours to begin with. I've taken a man."

"I don't care what you have. You still _could_ take him from me." Her gaze drowned within a subtle misery. "What do you know? He is mine. You think you're aware of the entire situation because you've been in love before. You don't. You're not in my position. You haven't seen what I've seen. Why do you judge?"

"You judge me."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I don't want you to be here. You're pretty. I want you to be overweight and hideous. I've seen them look at you. All of them. Even Toris in brief moments, even though he looks away and feels guilty afterward. I bet Ivan thinks you're lovely. Because you are." The blond child had to glance away. "I just don't want you near him."

"If you're so confident that he's yours, why don't you feel threatened by me?"

Sight came to the floor, touching to those worn socks.

"You know that he's taken Katya before, don't you? Men don't always mix emotion with sex. He could very well be using you, but because your head is clouded with infatuation, you've been blinded."

"I know he has. But…" Brows furrowed. "He loves me."

"Alright, Natasha. Fine. Of course he does." A sigh. "But you don't need to feel any animosity towards me. I cannot emphasize enough that I do not want any other man. I only want Roderich back. We've been together such a long time, anyone else…It could be like offering me gravel when I had a diamond…He's irreplaceable to me. And despite being separated from him, I won't stop adoring him. I lack the ability. So please. Stop staring at me like I'm attempting to ruin your entire life. There is nothing to ruin, Natasha."

"That's not true! _Ivan loves me!_"

"Alright."

Nothing was spoken between them the rest of that uncomfortable duration, food prepared and thoughts produced as fruit from a flourishing tree. They did not even glance to one another; they did not wish to. It was simply another ordeal either soul was meant to bear, the two not built to be companions. Not in such a tense presence.

And the days moved, drifting from chore to bitter chore and climbing from hour to painful hour.

Around three o' clock in that bland afternoon, Elizaveta found the man argued about, sitting at the dining room table with his smooth cheek held within that palm and bottom lip inattentive. Vision had been lidded and papers sat before that free and massive appendage.

Something was mumbled in an incoherent tongue, and the man rocked slightly.

It was nearly endearing.

At least, it would be. But this was Ivan Braginski, the one composed of strength and ice.

Elizaveta sat down at his right.

And the noise created awoke him.

"Mmm…" Sapphires glanced around nervously and found that intruder; the unwelcomed witness.

"Oh! Oh-What? You didn't see this. I _wasn't_ sleeping. What are you doing anyway?"

"Watching you sleep."

"_I wasn't sleeping._"

"Then what were you doing?"

"…Meditating."

"_You were meditating?_"

"Yes. I was meditating."

"It looked like you were sleeping."

"Well, that's nonsense."

The brunette laughed.

And after a moment, the Russian shifted again. "Quiet you. I wasn't sleeping…Really, what are you doing?"

"Well, I was watching you 'meditate', and then you snapped out of your spiritual journey and now we're talking. And sitting. That's what I'm doing. Talking and sitting. What? Do you want me to go to work?"

"…No. You can talk and sit. I had to take a break too. To meditate. And then talk and sit. Maybe I'll go meditate more. After these Goddamn papers."

"Is that why you ran away from home? I usually don't see you downstairs. Like finding a unicorn in your garden."

"I'm a unicorn now?"

"No." A slight curve. "You would be a horrible unicorn."

The man allowed that churning grin. "I'd be insulted if you told me I'd be a good unicorn…" Slight silence. "How has your day been?"

"It's been just fine. I've done what I normally do. Raise hell and get arrested. You know. Earn myself a few years in prison. Commit a few felonies. Fight a few mafia battles for the sake of revenge. And I got back in time to do my chores."

"Well, if you ever need any firearms, you can borrow some of mine. Raising hell and getting arrested is always more difficult without bullets. Especially when you're fighting revenge battles with the mafia."

Elizaveta held her mirth. "How was your day?"

"Oh, _boring!_ It's started when I blew up the hospital. Far too easy. Then a school and a parking lot, and after all of that mess I started a war with some Americans. The usual nonsense. You know how it is…I was in a mafia fight myself. I might have seen you there. But that was only a short while ago. I don't know when you returned."

"Did you win your revenge battle?"

"Yes. But it was a close call."

"Then it wasn't me. I won mine too."

"I see. It had to be someone else then."

They murdered their arriving bliss, mounds twisting as stomachs cried in mirth. Then their blood calmed. And they regarded one another.

"Mr. Braginski, may I ask something?"

"I don't see why not. But you're asking because it's something serious, isn't it?"

"I suppose so. At least to me."

"What is it?"

"How do you feel about Natasha?"

"Hmm…" His eyes closed. "Is this a guilt trip? Because if that's the case, I'm not going to answer."

"No. It's not a guilt trip. I'm just curious. She seems to really like you."

"I know she does. But…" A sigh. "I don't know. It's hard to label exactly what it is I feel towards her. To be honest, her behavior frightens me at times. But I'm not her father. I can't tell her how to behave. And I can't tell her to stop thinking of me. For the most part, she's harmless. Just annoying in a few cases. I'm not going to change anyone by getting upset. She at least does what's she's told."

A nod. "I suppose I can understand that."

"…What exactly inspired you to ask?"

Elizaveta offered a grin not forged in joy or smug nature. Perhaps simple interest. "We had a lovely conversation this morning about you. But I'm not going to say more than that. I probably shouldn't have brought it up in the first place."

"Did she tell you that I loved her?" When the opposite took her time, the man knew his answer. "I know she did. You don't have to be ambiguous. I've been through this before. She asked me where I had gone. And where you were. I know she probably interrogated you in fewer words and less formalities."

The smaller gave her affirmative movement.

"I thought she would have. Don't worry about Natasha. Things have been this way a long while. She'll get over it. That being said, you don't have to concern yourself if you'd like to go outside again. She'll be upset no matter what you decide to do. You might as well do what you like."

"Are you inviting me out?"

"You're silly, Elizaveta. Do you think I like being cooped up in an office all day? If I had an excuse to leave, I'll take it." That smile woven of unknown intention. "After all, you seem like a good person to have on hand if the mafia shows up with a few grudges they want to settle. I'm sure most others would get in the way."

Elizaveta exhibited her warmth. "I'm glad I don't necessarily not like you."

And Ivan simply shaped his lips into a miniscule simper.

"I'm going to get back to cleaning now. Don't'…meditate for too long." The Hungarian stood. "Good luck with those papers."

"Thank you."

A few steps were completed beneath those naked feet, and a voice was projected to stop that progression.

"Elizaveta…"

Attention to the one placing request.

"You can have the rest of today for yourself. You should help with dinner, but don't bother with cleaning."

"Thank you."

"Of course. You need to make some more clothing anyway, don't you?"

"Yes. I do. And I will." Gazes met briefly. "You should take a day for yourself as well."

"Thank you…"

And that oddly made pair moved their separate ways, the maid to her needles and her thread and the ruler to his numerous duties.

A portion of that near dislike was erased, as though there was never an argument or even an unpleasant meeting. Perhaps they were something of acquaintances, if one had to place a word against that odd flesh.

But there seemed to be a lack of words to describe such a mutated phenomenon.


	11. Chapter 11

They sat within that glowing field, dressed in white and saturated in golden rays. Their hands were bound as though they were encased in crimson ribbon. Lips met. Forms drew nearer.

"I've missed you, Roderich. You kept my heart with you…"

"I missed you as well, Elizaveta." A palm cupped the woman's flourishing cheek. "Sometimes I would imagine you calling my name like you used to…And when I would answer, sadness would come over me. Because I knew you truly weren't there. You received my letter, didn't you?"

"Of course I did! And I answered it as soon as I could." A kiss. "My heart broke when I read it. I hate to even imagine you upset…And I couldn't be there to help you through it. Icry when I picture you suffering. I love you so dearly…I can feel your pain, even from so many countries away. I'm sorry this had to happen."

"I'm sorry as well….If we fought harder…"

"No. I never wanted to fight in the place. And then they took your country so suddenly…We've never had a choice. Not even all those years ago when we first met. But you know that was one of the most wonderful moments of my life, marrying you. This is more of a divorce than signing those idiotic papers. Now I can't even visit you…" Another sweetened press. "This isn't our fault, Roderich. These things occur and sometimes there's nothing we can do but our best. And we did…I will have you again."

"You still have me, love. You took my heart with you…You could have at least asked me if you could steal it before you ran so far away. But that's alright. I love you so much; I don't possess the ability to be even mildly angry. I would have let you have it, even if you had asked."

"I know. You're too kind to me."

"I love you."

"I love you too…"

The pair came into an embrace, lips conversing in their undying passion.

Then they devoured one another's eyes, tears forming inside those luminescent wells.

"Are you treated well, darling? I've done nothing but worry for you."

The liquid sentiment was taken from the Austrian's pallid cheeks. "It's truly not so bad…I work. But I don't mind it. It's actually somewhat fulfilling, even though I'm kept occupied. But that doesn't matter. How is it at home? Are you busy as you always are?"

"Of course… But it's even more miserable. Before I had a beautiful woman I could wrap my arms around and kiss all I wanted. There's no one left for me now. I hate going to sleep without you by my side. The house is empty and only one person left."

"Oh Roderich…" Mounds embraced. "You can move on…I'll be happy for you just as long as you're not so dejected. You deserve someone more than yourself. You can have anyone you like."

"No. You can't be replaced, Elizaveta. You're the only woman for me. Asking me to find another is like telling me to stop playing the piano. I can't. I'll feel horrible if I even try."

"Roderich, you're too good…"

Nothing was spoken between them. They only basked within one another's arms.

They kissed and neither let go, silhouettes melding together as one great piece of earthly clay. Love possessed their aching hearts and filled so many of those gaping cracks, as the bandage to the ever bleeding wound.

And then, it was over.

All when Roderich spoke, "I wish you didn't have to wake up."

Those Emerald hued stones came to the biting light, and the woman found herself soaking within a warmed vat, her nude anatomy embellished in dreaming water, and her state one of near unconsciousness.

The temperature had subdued her.

And that steam had brought her heated emotion she had not experienced within that frigid ice.

Elizaveta thought of her sweetheart Roderich. She thought of his absence and she imagined his poor and shattering heart. She thought of her own. Her eyes filled with tears.

There was hatred for that weakened state; that broken heart and that situation. Detest came over her very cells because the woman had become somewhat friendly to the man who so possessed her and dictated her very actions as though she was a doll in the hands of a clumsy child. There was a sickness wallowing against Ivan Braginski, even though he had not dictated the transfer. That figurehead was the one to blame.

Hands protected those twisting formations and knees were pilled against that sobbing chest.

And the martyr swallowed her pain as obligation. As she had devoured it upon her wedding day, as she had when her divorce hit against her screaming chest as a sludge hammer, as she had when she had lost…

That pleasant fantasy had only brought misery.

Elizaveta rose from that comforting pond and faced that harsh world beyond that chipping door.


	12. Chapter 12

"Elizaveta…"

"Yes, Mr. Braginski?"

"Would you like to go out today? I'm not very busy. I thought you might like to get away some time or another and since today is fairly calm…"

"I don't really feel like being out, to be honest…"

"Why is that?"

"It's nothing. I'm just feeling down, I suppose…"

"But you didn't even have to ask this time."

"I know. It's kind of you to consider me. But you wouldn't enjoy yourself. Not while I'm in this state."

"So you would rather do chores?"

"No. I'd rather lie in my bed and rot. I don't feel much like moving."

Ivan sighed. "Listen. I'm going out regardless of what you decide to do. You can come with me or stay here and work, but you can't lie in your bed and be depressed."

"Why not? You're leaving."

"Because it's not good for your sanity. You'll get over it if you have something to keep you occupied. No. I can't stop you. But I don't want you to sit around and mope."

"_Why do you care?_"Brows furrowed. "You speak like I mean something to you! _How can I?_"

"Calm down!" Gazes battled once again and message in electricity had been placed within that tired atmosphere. "Why can't I have any regard about another human being? Contrary to popular belief, I'm not harsh or even all that cruel. Maybe seeing others unhappy bothers me to no end, especially when I can at least try and do something. You don't have to be rude to me. _I'm trying to help._"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Brag-"

"_It's Ivan._ Mr. Braginski is a dried out office slave who doesn't know what sunshine is."

"Ivan…I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude; I'm sure you can understand how it is to be in a completely new place. And to say good-bye…I'm depressed."

"It's alright…Just tell me what you're going to do."

The woman thought a considerable moment. "I'll go with you. What were you going to do?"

"I'd like to go to the movies…We didn't go last time, even though it was suggested. Do you like films, Elizaveta?"

"Yes I do."

"Good. We should do that, then. But I don't want to see anything romantic. I'm not even sure what's out."

"I don't want to see a romance either. I hate those stupid films."

"I figured you would." The Russian wore a slight smile. "I'll finish my papers and then we can go out. I won't be all too long."

Elizaveta offered affirmative movement and took position against the chair compiled into that dimly lit corner. Tired gaze came to his focused visage, those chilled sapphires reading and scanning and contemplating all that needed to be done. His signature graced that manila flesh, official ink making invisible difference and letters folded and compacted into fresh envelopes. They were placed with all the rest after gaining their ordained locations.

Even such mundane and menial action brought the Hungarian emotional discomfort. Roderich was forced into such unpleasant monotony himself. And she would sit with him and cause a grin to mold those serious and beautiful lips.

The woman had to swallow hard to defend against those chokes, and even then, wells flooded in silvery inklings.

There was awareness for that state and oversensitivity to even the smallest of infractions.

But it is difficult not to shatter glass while walking upon it with iron sols.

"Stop crying." Again, those hard blue gems tore into the miserable soul's very essence. "_Please._ I'll cry too."

"You're not going to cry." Elegant digits removed those welling sentiments. "That's nonsense."

"You're right. It is. But don't cry."

Through those aches, the woman managed to laugh. "Liar."

"Why are you upset, Elizaveta?" There was not a beat missed.

"Roderich would sign papers too…It reminded me of him. I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous…"

"Well…." Ivan rose, drawing nearer to that distressed creature. "You can be as ridiculous as you want. Just don't cry. I hate it when anyone starts tearing up." That enormous hand was offered to the other.

"Thank you." And the queen took it, her miniscule palm drowning within that hold. She glanced to him, trying not to laugh and cry and simply break all at the very same instance.

"Yes I know. I have big hands."

The cracking doll managed to stand.

"You're the weird ne. Laughed and crying and staring at me. So what is I have his hands and feet? Look at your hair."

"Let go of my hand, Ivan."

"I keep thinking you're going to fall backward." The gargantuan grasp fell away, either appendage held before the woman in great caution, as though she was a pile of unsteady articles.

There was mirth and a few more of those droplets.

"_Stop crying!_"

"I'm sorry." Mirth and misery and then simple misery. "Sorry…"

The larger sighed, holding the end of his sleeve and removing those heart-wrenching deluges.

"Are you alright?"

"No. Not really."

"We don't have to go now. I still have things I can do."

"No…I'm almost back to normal; whatever that is. I'm just emotional. And my hair isn't strange. I prefer to have it long."

"I never said it was strange. Neither are my hands. They're just large, and your hair is just long, but even if I did, what's wrong with strange? All the interesting people are."

"I suppose so." The woman began to calm. "Thank you, Mr-Ivan." And as to reaffirm that title, the syllables were repeated. "_Ivan._"

"Well, there had to something to break up my day, so you're welcome. If no one was upset, this would be a boring house. Actually, my entire job is about people being upset. All I do is solve problems."

"I know. My husband did the same thing."

"Husband?"

"Oh…No. Not my husband. My darling. It feels like we're still married."

"Do you want to be?"

"Of course. But let's not talk about that. I'll be depressed again."

There was only a nod.

"Well, let's go. Take me from this place."

"I would love to."

And the pair left their prison, that estate seeming to freeze within that merciless snow, Ivan leading the way with Elizaveta fallowing at his flank. They stole each other's features; they spoke; they placed thought against their toes, when uncertainly struck as a horrid mallet.

Then they arrived to the cinema, and they bought their tickets and they picked their seats.

After that, they waited. The lights having not been clicked off.

In the misshapen silence, the woman calculated, directed her mind from that marvelous Austrian and onto that Russian poised at her side.

Regardless of those idiotic labels, it felt as though her placement was given only because of strange and developing relationship. Neither would admit that mangled fact, yet there was a certain and dim affection. Elizaveta knew she would likely morph into that ruler's near companion, at least acquaintance, and Ivan had drunken of that notion as well.

But they hid those mutilated intentions and pretended their presence was only crafted in wallowing greed.

And as they reminded themselves of that stinking untruth, their attentions met and they began another conversation.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Thank you. It's better to be out than cooped up in the same place for so many days on end. It's cleared my mind."

"I can understand that…I feel better too. I hate that office."

"Why don't you leave it more often?"

"There's not enough time. That's why Natasha has to bring me my meals. I figure no one will eat with me anyway."

"Well-Don't say that."

"They talk badly about me, don't they?"

Elizaveta took far too long. "No."

"Lies."

"No! They don't…say much of anything, really."

"_Lies._"

"Fine. But it doesn't matter what they think. Authority is always hatred, no matter the situation. I remember being Roderich's wife. The servants would sigh the moment I walked into their space, no matter what I said or how politely I said it. You're asking the wrong people for a fair opinion, don't you think?"

"Of course, but it doesn't make much difference. No one wants to be hated."

"No; they don't."

"Elizaveta, what do you think of me?"

"I haven't known you long enough to give you a decent answer. But it's kind of you to take me from that house. It was kind of you to ask before I asked you. You obviously have the potential to be nice…I don't know how are to the others, but to me you seem decent."

"'Decent'?"

"Yes. Decent. What's wrong with decent?"

"Nothing. I just wish I was more than decent to _someone._"

"You are. Natasha loves you."

"Natasha is a lunatic."

Elizaveta contained her bliss behind churning mounds. "I won't argue with that. But how do you expect anyone to believe that of you when you only come from that office a few hours a week? And then when you do speak to them, you give orders and nothing else. I won't lie to you. I'm not certain who would find someone who speaks to them that way anything but unpleasant. That and our restrictions are somewhat ridiculous. If things changed and we were happier…I don't know. Living there wouldn't seem so horrible."

The Large man held a kind of dismal aura within his eyes.

"Oh stop that! You look like a kicked puppy! You're not a bad person. You just need to alter a few things, like anyone else. Why would that bring you any surprise?"

"I don't know."

Elizaveta released her compact wind. "Listen, that's no reason to be upset. Like I said, the moment you even have a small amount of power, few will find any sympathy for you. It doesn't mean you're a terrible human being. You're just in a situation where people will automatically dislike you. Like a tax collector. It doesn't matter _how_ sweet you are, or _how_ you do your job. You've taken a title no one wants to hear or have. Believe me, I know. Being an aristocrat's wife isn't easy. So don't put that look on your face. You knew the answer before you asked the question."

"I suppose you're right…I'm sorry I hurt you, Elizaveta."

"I'm over that and I've been through worse. It's fine." A pause. "…How do you feel about me?"

"I think you're too proud and you're stubborn. But you're reasonable, and easy to talk with. You're kind. I can tell, even though you're frustrated. And I'm sorry about that. If I could do something I would, because I know how it feels. I can't tell you how long I've wished someone would have helped me." A temporary and solemn tick, and the more phrase. "You're brutally honest too. Which is a nice change, despite the occasional sting. And you hair is nice."

The woman twisted her lips a moment. "My hair is nice? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all."

"I see." The Hungarian thought. "That's your impression of me? I'm stubborn and proud and brutal and I have nice hair?'

"That's correct."

"Hmm…"

"It's not a bad thing. And I could be wrong too. We don't know each other very well yet. But that's my impression of you. Things change. Maybe I'll find out that you're truly insane and none of what I just said is even remotely _near_ to who you really are. You could be wearing a wig. Who knows, Elizaveta?"

And the listener allowed her amusement. "No. I promise you, that description is fairly accurate, and I'm not wearing a wig. I _am_ brutally honest. And I'm stubborn. I doubt anything will change too drastically."

Ivan offered a curve. "Good."

Silence.

"…Your eyes are pretty." She felt obligated to give him complement as well.

"Thank you, Elizaveta."

The movie started shortly after that.

Throughout that film, either cast glanced to one another, uncertain of why exactly they felt implored to stare. Their wells made contact on several occasions, and they held stupid curls upon their lips, knowing how ridiculous that event was.

Minds were far too occupied to give blight regard to that flashing black and white screen. It was hard to wipe those sweet memories from consciousness, that new slave recalling her love within everything. Only scathing work would prevent acknowledgment from turning to his wide open arms, begging for her figure to satiate their starving grasp.

And had Roderich embraced that dying nymph, tears would engulf that exhausted face.

When that film reached its end, the strange couple emptied from that edifice and progressed home.

Again, there was need to murder that blaring quiet.

"Ivan, do you have a phone?"

"I do. But it's only for business." A temporary still. "You can't call him."

"I didn't think I would be able to."

"Then why did you ask about it?"

"I was hoping for a chance."

"Ah…"

Then there nothing, and then they came to their asylum, a dream dead reduced to disjointed ashes.

She would give anything to hear his voice.

Work was attended to.


	13. Chapter 13

'I wish he hadn't said that.'

The woman wrote desire against that torn scrap in her neatest Russian, folded it and placed that body within her jar, only to reassign it to the same location it had been inside previously. There were two dreams within that container now…A finger stroked its polished surface with infinite adoration.

Elizaveta wished Ivan had not given her kind word. She wished he had not been sweet in removing her from that sullen prison. She wished she had stayed in her bed and cried.

Roderich would feel betrayed. He was a most wonderful man, but certainly, he would not appreciate her insinuating friendship with the man who so commanded her, who had threatened her and subjected that pretty flesh to flame and blister.

But what was she to do? No one wished to have hostile relations. It would be as the child who demands the venerated paddle. Such a request would have the wielder of that feared plank dumbfounded.

Yet, as in all things, her worry was dissolved in work, and her concern saturated in more important matters.

One of which was the dwindling supply of nourishment. With each day, the pantry drained as a never closing wound. And each week, less was contributed to that fading mess. It was the tree that simply shrunk in the state of childish seed.

Salt would be used in the placement of sugar; flower mixed into places it did not belong. Ingredients were gradually deleted from the equation, extinct when they were required and handy when they were not.

Because two plus two indeed made five.

It simply had to.

Ivan would take his hour each set of days and claim supplies. And instead of returning with those sacks full of meat and vegetables and necessities, he would carry only complaints.

"You wouldn't believe how much a small bottle of oil costs!" Or, "I couldn't buy more than a few carrots," and, "Vodka is only meant for kings, apparently."

Unfortunately, exploited thoughts could not satiate hunger.

They all progressed to the weaker form of themselves.

"Elizaveta…"

That Hungarian nearly slept while standing, eyes shut and form wobbling as though she was prepared to fall. Her pretty lips hung slightly agape and a surge passed through her at the mere mention of her weary title.

"No!" Attention came to the same pot upon the stove, the handle immediately grasped and the dish allotted a decent stir. "Oh my goodness! Was I asleep? Who can rest while standing?" More consciousness was acquired. "Thank you…"

"Are you alright?"

"No…I couldn't sleep last night. I was starving, for one thing. And my thoughts were screaming at me. I'm not doing very well."

"Well, I wouldn't advise taking a nap in the kitchen."

"No."

Those emeralds focused upon that steaming cauldron, its ingredients bleak and its very constitution meager.

A sigh.

The spoon completed its duty.

Breakfast was served shortly after the woman's minor fiasco.

It was difficult to work with such scarce energy, the entire house, even Mr. Braginski himself, collapsed beneath that great lethargy and limbs seemed to revert to hideous stone. Medusa was not even present.

They all watched one another, watched as simple movement required a forehead drowning within sweat.

Toris and Eduard could no longer move their firewood. They could no longer shovel snow from the patios and the branches and the front stops. They could no longer bear the cold within that horrid land so drenched in frost.

And the Hungarian woman found them, out of breath, broken against the sofa within one of those useless and dust infested rooms. One of the chambers her exhausted hands were ordained to clean.

Their glances did not come to her, gazes clouded over in a thick film of utter waste. Mouths hung in inevitable stupidity. They were bodies that contained no souls.

But the obdurate thing still tried.

"Are either of you alright?"

"…No."

"No…"

"…When was the last time you had an actual day to yourselves?"

Toris forced himself from those rotting cushions and looked to the one centered before him. A numbed palm wiped the fluid from that soaking brow and breaths went devoured as though they were composed of the most wondrous of flavors.

"Never, Elizaveta."

"We're too afraid to ask." Eduard raised his battered voice, removing those glasses and melding attention to that elderly ceiling.

"Even if we did, we would be told to get back to work."

"We're only rats kept in wheels."

"_That's not true!_" A stamp of that prideful foot. "I'm going to talk with that man and you two are going to rest."

"No!" Unanimously.

"_No?_ Why?"

"Don't you remember the last time you asked for better hours? You were so bruised…"

"We know it hurts. You don't have to do that."

"_But it's the right thing to do._"

"Elizaveta, that doesn't matter! Don't get hurt, _please._"

She said nothing, only looked into Toris' broken expression and saw that poor soul, lied to, overworked, underfed, dying. No. He was dead. He had been for years.

Then she read Eduard. Intelligent, worn, lost, misused.

It was cruel.

And Elizaveta was cruel if her words did not drench that giant's ear. She was cruel if she did not take those shredded boots and the rusted sword and holler at the dragon's lavish nest. She was cruel if she watched and accepted, as she had been since her arrival.

And Elizaveta was not a cruel woman.

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to listen to either of you. Worry about yourselves. Because your work is so much harder. I won't let you waste away. This isn't right."

And that angered siren ran to that dictator, sitting within his beaten office without pain inside those powerful lungs. Those hands forced the doors open and that shining idol bent her barbed stare into the ruler's pallid and unprotected flesh.

Ivan looked up, sighing.

"You're the only one with enough nerve to march up here that way. You know that, don't you?" A document marred. "Well, what is it, dear? You're upset about something."

"Have you seen Toris and Eduard? Those poor men can't even move! You work us too hard! There's no food; there's _nothing_ to cook with! I know there's not a thing you can do about that, but those people aren't mules! They don't sleep on hay, eat grass and pull carts, Ivan!" There was a clam. "They're afraid of you. They feel as though they can't ask you for rest…But that doesn't change the fact that they need it. If they work anymore without any nourishment they're going to die. _You couldn't live with that_. Or could you?"

They stared.

"Please. I am begging you; give them a day to themselves. Just once a week. You say you want people to like you, well this is a chance! They're suffering. How can you allow that when you _can _do something?"

And the Russian demanded of his palms.

"You really are a pain, Elizaveta."

"Yes; I am. And I don't care. You can think I'm a demon if you like, but just let them have a few hours."

"I find it amazing that you can simply breaking into my office and start yelling at me. You should be a politician."

"Answer me, Goddamn it!"

"Shh! Hush! Calm down!" An intense glare from that plausible leviathan. "Listen to me. You don't have to rush in here with your guns blazing and your grenades ready. I assumed we were on at least decent terms. And you're a _mostly_ sensible person. Stop yelling. Sit down. I'm not going to turn you away because you aren't giving me a headache. Trust me. I'll hear what you have to say; I promise you."

Elizaveta took her seat.

"Now, you want them to have days to themselves."

"Yes. I do."

"I already told you they can request them."

"And I already told you they're too afraid."

"Alright." Large fingers kneaded those temples. "I'll think about it."

"No."

"_No?_ What the hell do you mean, _'No'_?"

"We need to come to a conclusion. I'm not going until I can tell them something."

"So they sent you up here?"

"No, of course not. They told me not to say anything to you. That you would hit me again…" A pause. "But I know you won't, because you've apologized. You've proven to me that you have a heart. We all make mistakes."

"I don't get a break either."

"No one said it had to be that way. And you do. You've taken them with me. I'm a witness." There was even a smile for an ephemeral phase. "So don't tell me that."

A mighty explosion of air. "Fine. They can have free days. But not all at once. Everyone can pick one. Tell them that. Will that keep you from shouting?"

"No."

"_No?_"

"No."

"_Why?_"

"Because. I want Toris and Eduard to take today and rest. Then they can choose. The yard is clean. The snow is gone and you have enough firewood to burn. They're spent...They couldn't work if they wanted to."

"Fine. Fine. Whatever you want." Those sapphires sink into calloused palms. "Can I do anything else for you? Do you want me to sever a few of my fingers and give them to you? Or maybe I can make a golden statue of you can erect it in the front yard; you know. We'll replace the flag with it. Or maybe I can kill a bear with my empty have, skin it, and make a coat. _Do you want any of that?_"

"No sir. That's it."

"_That's it._"

"Yes. That's it."

"_Truly?_"

"Yes, truly. I promise." A muffled grin. "Thank you."

"What now?"

"_Thank you._"

There was no response.

"Actually, that golden statue sound fairly nice."

"Get out."

"Wait, can I just have a finger or two-"

"Get out."

"Just a thumb?"

"_Out of my office!_" Despite that wretched tone, there was choked mirth and deceptive wells.

And the Hungarian released her bliss; running; knowing something had been won. Not only for herself, but for each of those soured limbs, those sad men and women that lived beneath might denomination.

Finally, a great privilege had been achieved, and the holder f that shimmering gift ran to give that prize to the others, the ones left dead upon the sofa, the ones that worked with such dwindling energy. The dying ones.

And with those moving feet, she smiled. She was happy.


	14. Chapter 14

The days were assigned and so many grew relieved. No longer would those sorry bodies rise and never fall. There was no more work. There was even temporary bliss. And they all knew who to blame; who to thank; who to direct their eyes to; who to admire.

Katya even embraced Elizaveta, wrapping her inside her warm body and keeping that surprised creature near as a child who had evoked God himself.

And Elizaveta embraced her in return, joyous to have caused even a small dose of euphoria.

And then there was Ivan, who sat within his dour office and thought. No. He could not work. He would not write replies to those angered bosses; he could not sign his name at the bottom of those horrid epics, stretching on and on with nothing but intangible jargon; he could only think, captivated by that venerated woman.

He did not know why.

There was something within that lovely shell that would not be broken. Always, it would be there, as a diamond in the center of a grand stone. The granite could be chipped away, the gravel broken and torn asunder, but that clear and shimmering thing would never find its bitter end.

And it was valuable.

It was her strength, and her weakness. And it was her. That power was all the woman was, all its qualities crafted her, they defined her, and they bent her while allotting an unbendable trait.

None of the others held it. Not even one of them besides that glowing Hungarian. They were battered and broken by both life and death and fatigue. But bruises and fractures and misery would not stop that miniature queen. Limbs would still thrash and fists would still beat on, regardless of the pain inflicted against magenta flesh. That voice would still cause ears to bleed.

Yet, she was so lovely, so soft, those lips so pretty and sensuous and fragile. The muse strong as an enraged ox had honeyed attributes. Her hair flower as a golden fall and those eyes, sharp and horrid as unforgiving spears, were beautiful, glimmering…

There was still the ability to speak with sweet tones and hold such glorious words.

Elizaveta was a growing container of abnormalities. Sugared and bitter, barbed and smooth. Calm and filled with perpetual rage.

And each of those contrasting truths was shown to him, To Ivan's curious gaze, to his witness. It was difficult not to find intrigue at such an odd creature, such a conundrum.

Ivan Braginski was fascinated.

It was so difficult not to be.

And there he was, sitting within that comfortable chair and writhing all because he could not even attempt to lay fingers upon that humming nymph. All because he could not speak with her whenever he desired; it would be unfair; it would be indecent; it would be wrong. All because he could not have her, not even a darling companion.

Now, he could not even place words upon parchment.

His heart was something ruined and the vandal could not see the damage that had been done. The fragments could not be detected beneath those frigid shoes.

The man did not comprehend that sudden capitulation. Logically, he had not known her long. They had only been out together twice. There was only speech every once in a while. And they tended to argue. Frequently.

But despite the stupid cries of sense and the constant inquiry yelling, "Why", the man still found a kind of mangled affection for the ludicrous woman; the fine warrior.

Elizaveta had become something of a phantom that could not be expelled from the backside of his calculations.

Sometimes she came forward.

And it was one of those cruel happenings, when her very essence possessed him and refused to allow him freedom. She held him and bound him and broke him and blinded him.

Ivan simply could not function.

So he lingered and stared.

Natasha could not even wake him.

"Ivan!"

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright? I've been called your name for quite a while."

"I'm fine…" His head was shaken. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing in particular….Just about everything. You have similar moments, don't you?"

"Of course." Natasha kissed that pallid cheek, and then the opposing. "You were lovely with that expression on your face. I'm sorry to interrupt you."

"That's alright. I should try to focus anyway…Do you need something?"

"Not necessarily." A slight smile against those lips. "I just came to tell you what day I wanted for myself. But if you don't want to give me one, that's alright. That woman is far too persistent, and you know I would be happy doing anything for you. Even if I'm the only one." A bony hand claimed the rest of that snow white apple.

"No…She was right. How can anyone do well without a break?"

"_She was not!_ They're all a bunch of whiners; all of them! The idea that she even had the _nerve_ to ask for such a thing…If you truly wanted us to have a free day you would have given us one before…" Blades stroked that smooth hide. "You're a smart man. You know what you're doing. And if she doesn't trust you in your decisions, that's her problem, isn't it?"

"But she was right…I needed a break too Natasha."

"Yes. Because you work so hard."

"Well, regardless of who's right and wrong, you still get a day to yourself. What did you have in mind?"

"Friday."

"That's the same day I have."

"I know it is. I want to be with you."

"Natasha, I can't do that. We all need to have different days."

"Why? Don't you want to spend the day with me?"

"Of course…But those are the rules, dear. I can't break them. I never really have unless it's a necessity.

"What day does Elizaveta have?"

"Thursday."

"Well, what's left?"

"Wednesday and Monday. Toris hasn't chosen yet."

"Then I'll have Wednesday."

"Alright." Ivan removed a small list from one of those may drawers and wrote Natasha's name within the 'Wednesday' slot. Then 'Toris' to the' Monday' opening. It was locked away after that brief tattoo in fatal ink. "There."

"Thank you."

"It's no problem."

Another kiss, that edition burning upon the tip of Ivan's susceptible nose. "I'll get back to work now. I'm sorry I interrupted you."

"You didn't. Like I said, I needed to wake up." In award motion, the Russian man pressed his lips to Natasha's in return, shivering somewhat as the deed was seen through. The bitter little woman could feel that something within her beloved had altered drastically.

"I hope you have a nice day, Ivan."

"Thank you."

The dictator was left to his day dreams.


	15. Chapter 15

The thing was curled up against the floor, the tips of its thin legs pointed towards that flattened anatomy. It had collapsed into itself, and coiled upon her worn rug.

The spider had starved.

With a piece of parchment, its cadaver was taken from that mat so bathed in dust and age and slipped softly within that garbage can. A small part of the woman held that frightful paranoia, as thought those folded appendages would spring into animation and set their blind wrath upon her.

But they did not.

And there was more dejection because they had not.

Another strip of naked paper was stolen, and another prayer posted in neat Cyrillic against its virgin hide.

'I wish that spider hadn't starved.'

Again, that creased thought touched to the smooth base of that filling jar, and again, the container was tucked away in a cell composed of oak.

Then that sweet Hungarian lied upon her frigid sheets, closing those lethargic eyes and lacing her fingers over her barren abdomen.

It was her own set of hours, and they would be spent in a land saturated in heavenly dreamscapes with handsome men named Roderich. There were no men named Ivan, no demonic succubae labeled Natasha, and none of those overworked slaves, with their bleeding fingers and their weathered visages.

As her soul began to drift, a light knock devoured that silent atmosphere.

The mighty king into the woman's peaceful den.

"The bare left the cave." A body rose. "What is it, Ivan?"

"…Roderich sent you a letter." The envelope lay exhausted upon the wooden surface, a sudden cloud of dust engulfing its innocent manila hide. "And I came to ask you about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What's going to happen tomorrow?"

"Nothing if you want it to." The Russian sat on the bed, causing that mattress to tip. Mirth arrived in quick response. "I've come to ask you to lunch. And maybe a walk in the park, if you like."

"Why do you need to ask?" Interest had been aroused. "I already yelled at you to get free time. You taking me from here is pointless unless I actually want to go. And I haven't requested time outside…It's odd that you're asking me, don't you think? Especially when I have to do what you say in the end regardless of any argument I have."

"Maybe I actually want to be out with you."

That strange muse curved those attractive mounds. "Have you asked anyone else to go?"

"No."

"That's unfair."

"It's not; if they would ask, I would take them."

"But you're not asking them. And you're asking me."

The man thought in fast duration. "I don't care."

"You don't care."

"No. I don't."

Another few seconds filled in calculative quiet. "You know I have to ask why. What makes me the chosen one?"

There was not even thought. "You're not afraid of me."

"No. I'm not…" Elizaveta's heart converted to solemn stone. "I'm sorry, Ivan. I'll go to lunch with you. And if you find I'm intolerable, we can just return and skip the park…"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Moments of mangled and mutilated air. "Why don't you ask Natasha to go with you? I know you think she's a lunatic, but she obviously enjoys your company. You're probably the only one she is nice to."

"It's fairly simple. I just don't like her. She scares me."

"Then you shouldn't use her."

"Well…It's complicated. I thought I loved her once." Brows bent beneath the weight of distress. "But as we became closer, I realized I didn't. And Natasha just grew more obsessed. I'm honestly horrified at what will happen if I tell her don't feel the same way towards her. The girl is already losing her mind; if she hasn't lost it already."

"But that doesn't make it right."

"I know it doesn't. But there's a lot about me that isn't right."

A strict reprimand in the chest. "Don't you even _begin!_ If you don't like something about yourself, then by all means _change it._ That's not an excuse, and you're just being down on yourself. Besides, you're not all too bad."

"Is that why you yell at me all the time?"

"I yell at everyone else all the time. And I don't like it either. My voice gets tired."

"Then why not yell at people less?"

"Oh. I have to." The woman simpered. "It's the one thing I can't change about myself."

"I see." Ivan regarded his counterpart and gave a playful slap in return. "Don't hit me."

"My apologies." And her hand grew possessed, ending limp knuckled to the other's shoulder.

"What did I just say?"

"I'm not certain. I wasn't really listening." Another delicate assault from that grinning speaker. "Something about…hitting?"

"No hitting." A pair of light attacks was returned to the one who began that harmless fire.

And she simply laughed, electing not to exacerbate that false war. "Well, thank you. And in order to make everything even, I'm going to request to go outside next time. Whenever it's convenient. You're aware of my schedule."

"Alright. Thank you, Elizaveta. Who knows? Maybe you can actually buy me lunch."

A brief chuckle. "Sure. I'll buy you lunch if I can borrow a few rubles. But you should know I probably won't pay you back."

"That's what I figured." The large man rose, causing that seemingly miniature bed to inhabit former perimeters. "Well, I'm going to get back to work now. I hope you enjoy your free time."

"I will. Thank you…"

Without phrase, the guest took his leave, and Elizaveta returned to ridding her worn gems and trying to settle that shaken mind. It was difficult to skip with Ivan Braginski looming over every thought. But eventually, the task was done, and that saddened Hungarian found home within Roderich's kindly embrace.


	16. Chapter 16

Cheeks were pinched and eyes were lightly outlined in grey, lips dipped in rouge and lashes made longer. She wore one of her elder dresses. She wore her finest fur coat. She bound her hair into a tightly woven and clean bun, crafted to sit at the back of her freshly scrubbed crown.

And she looked like she used to.

She was beautiful.

For a moment, Elizaveta wondered why her form was made into that of a doll's. Why exactly silk was draped around her, as a bride tailored in the wrong hue, a rich purple…

But her presence would be placed outside. And she could not wear rags on such an occasion, nor would she be caught in worn trousers. And when wearing a dress built in extravagance and embellished in fantastic pigmentation, tresses may not be unruly and the resident visage must be lovely. Otherwise would be as a warthog in lavish gems.

Then there was a knock upon the door.

"Come in!"

The woman was stricken with surprise, finding Katya at her threshold, wrapped within humble rags similar to the pair Elizaveta would have worn.

"Oh, hello…"

"Hello…Why are you dressed so nicely? We were supposed to work together today."

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I had asked Ivan yesterday if I could go outside and he told me it would be more useful for him if we went today…"

"_But why are you dressed so nicely?_"

"I didn't want to go out looking…Beaten. I only have these clothes and the ones used for working."

The Ukrainian bent suspicious brows. "So you're going out with Ivan, aren't you?"

"Oh, Katya. Don't tell me you're accusing me if trying to take him for myself. I have enough of that from Natasha. We're hardly even friends-_acquaintances._ Not even acquaintances…" Lips bent. "Please tell me you don't think so lowly of me. I already have a man to love, even if he's so far away."

"I know, Elizaveta. But that doesn't wipe the rouge from your cheeks. You're too beautiful for a simple trip beyond those doors…He can be charming. I know he can be."

"Charming? Katya, that's nonsense. My Roderich was charming too. Far more charming than that _Braginski._"

"_Then why are you dressed that way?_ You could have borrowed plainer clothes from me and your face doesn't have to be made out so nicely. I've never met Roderich…But what do you think this leads me to believe?" Katya sighed. "Just promise me you'll be careful. And you won't do anything rash."

"Katya…You're so silly. I would never dream of laying my hands on anyone but Roderich. Don't worry about me. Just worry about yourself. You work too hard to be concerned with anyone else."

"But…"

"No. It's true. Come here."

And the woman listened, standing before that Hungarian. Immediately, she was taken into a warmed embrace and held as a venerated idol. Then she was released.

"Don't worry about me."

"Alright." Katya's mounds curled minimally. "Elizaveta, may I ask a favor?"

"I don't see why not."

"May I see your dresses? I've been curious ever since you arrived."

"Of course! You can have one, if you like." Their feet led them to that oaken wardrobe, beautiful doors pulled open and a world of satin and lace granted to that poor soul, who had seldom laid eyes against such a glorious compilation of utter beauty.

"I couldn't fit into one of those things. I would tear it in half."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes I would! Buttons fly off even my own clothing. I hate having such a large chest…"

"Well…I'll tailor it for you. So it _can _fit. I only have to move a few stitches. And there has to be something here that will work."

"But they're too pretty. They must have cost a fortune. I couldn't take one…"

"Of course you can. I'm letting you."

"I couldn't even lay a hand on one of them…"

"You better touch them. Every single one. All over."

That sweet maid glanced into the sudden queen's eyes.

"_Do it._ I want you to."

And just as that battered and calloused appendage reached for those wondrous gowns, the porthole cried and the nervous slave released a peep, knowing she was not where her feet were intended.

Ivan glanced at them as tough catching a glimpse of something extraordinary.

"Hello Katya."

"Hello, Ivan. I'm sorry. I was just speaking with Elizaveta."

"That's alright. Just be sure you don't stay on break for too long. It's easy to get distracted."

"Oh, of course not." A slight nod. "I was going to get back to work. Excuse me." The timid woman fled.

And the remaining two regarded one another.

"You look lovely." The man drank her as sweet wine to the thirsty traveler, those cerulean gems embellished in her very image. "Why are you wearing such a lovely dress?"

"I didn't want to go out looking filthy. These gowns have to be used for something or other."

Ivan glanced to his garments, then to the innards of that bustling wardrobe drenched in shimmering attraction. "Is that all you have to wear? Those gowns and your work clothes?"

"Yes. But I have no right to complain…They're lovely dresses. But I wouldn't dare wear them while at work. Would you like to see them?"

"You're going to try them on?"

"No. I was just wondering if you wanted to look at them…"

"Oh, alright." The Russian gently touched those wooden hangers, as though the oak itself was something fragile and demure, regarding each one of those shells attached to them. Worn blades kissed those glistening hides, imagining the soul who owned them exploiting those poignant hues. "They're very nice. Did Roderich get them for you?"

"Yes. He did."

"He must have loved you…"

"He still loves me."

A sudden writhing affected that mighty ruler, and his pained gaze adhered to those battered socks. There was sudden necessity to purchase something just as handsome for that polished doll.

"I'm sorry, Ivan. That was rude…But yes. Roderich was very kind to me…You know my wardrobe is only missing a few things…"

"Like what?"

"A bearskin coat." There was a miniature simper. "And the bear had to be killed by someone's empty hands."

The guest allowed those lips to curl. "I see. If I lose a finger or two catching your bear, I'll warp them up nicely and give them to you. Unfortunately, I need my thumbs. At the moment, anyway."

The Hungarian released pretty mirth. "That would be lovely, but you don't have to go through the trouble." The wardrobe doors were closed. "Would you like to leave?"

"Yes. I would."

"Wonderful."

The pair left that aging chamber, and as they always had, traveled towards that frigid world and all the bitter frost within it, either dressed within deepened coats and gloves and shined boots. Ivan yearned to wrap one of those heavy arms around those delicate shoulders, a certain pride engulfing him to be a near companion to such a lovely woman.

He wished to embellish that rouge stained cheek with a gentle press of the mouth.

It was not a wonder why Roderich spoiled her with such royal silks. Elizaveta was as a gorgeous model he was allowed to clothe, sample her flesh and regard that shapely anatomy.

The man shook himself.

And they came to restaurant, which had its doors locked.

"…It's closed?"

"Well…I'm not surprised. The only things left are canned goods and grain. Even those are dwindling." Brows dipped beneath disappointment. "What would you like to do, Elizaveta?"

"We could go to the park…That's what was planned next, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then let's do that. I'm sure it's lovely in the winter."

A nod. "You'll like it…I'm sorry this didn't work out."

"It's not your fault."

Again, they began to shift, glances cast to one another and uncertain grind overtaking their lips. They did not yet speak, almost wishing to save conversation before arriving to that somehow rectified area.

When they arrived to those fields drenched in their snow, no one was left to make that still world revolve. No children to cry; no parents to yell, no voices to be raised. And they sat against one of those many emptied benches, the first cleared from that surface.

And they devoured one another.

"Hello, Elizaveta."

"Hello, Ivan."

"How have you been?"

"I've been well. How about you?"

"I've been…busy. But good." The man leaned against those bitter planks. "Elizaveta, what was Katya really doing?"

"She was looking at my dresses. I was going to let her have one…She wasn't there long."

"That's very kind of you."

"No. It just seemed like then right thing to do."

"How so?" the Russian man seemed confused a slight duration.

"Well…I have an entire wardrobe full of silk and I would be lucky if those dresses were even removed from their hangers. They're only going to collect dust. But if I can make someone happy by giving them something I will never use…I don't know. It feels greedy to keep them. And the way she asked to see them. She told me she's wanted to see my dresses since I had arrived."

"I see. If that's the case, can I have one?"

Elizaveta laughed. "I'm not sure they're the right size. I'm sorry…"

"Ah well. That's alright. My legs are too sexy to be kept in a dress anyway. I'll never get anything done with all the extra attention."

Another edition of mirth. "You're funny."

"Thank you."

A moment of comfortable silence.

"Ivan, may I see one your hands?'

"Why?"

"I just want to see it. Please."

The man offered his palm to that curious spectator, who placed her elegant fingers upon those powerful numerals, surfaces touching and attention falling against that odd bond. The woman's appendage could hardly fill that abnormal mold.

Those delicate phalanges removed that shiny leather glove.

"Hey..."

"I'll put it back. I promise."

A sigh.

"Oh hush, you'll live."

That near cadaver was examined, those knuckles explored by softened blades and that worn palm touched so sweetly by the interrogative doll.

"Would you like to see my foot next?"

"Oh, no…This is fine. But thank you for offering." A grin. "I was just selecting which fingers I want you to sever." The man was given his glove. "But I'd like to have the statue and the coat first. It doesn't need to be difficult for you. Perhaps I'll even let you choose a dress for yourself."

"How kind."

"Oh, you know me."

The leather was not replaced. "Let me see your hand."

A surrendered limb, and immediately, two of those monstrous creatures devoured it, holding that treasure in layered caution. "Hmm…"

"What is it, Ivan?"

"This would make an excellent good luck charm."

"Should I be flattered or bothered?"

"Whatever you like." Thumbs pressed sweetly against that gloved article in a strangely esteemed fit of mutated friendship. It was returned when that odd king found warmth gathering within his middle.

Even her hands, put to work so frequently, were lovely.

Not worn and battered as his own.

"Well, now I know what to get you for a gift."

That blue eyed man laughed. "That's alright. You need them more than I do. Besides, I'm sure I can find something else to suffice as a charm."

A silent smile.

And a pause. "Elizaveta…Do you enjoy making clothes?"

"Goodness no! Why? Did you need something made?"

"No; no…I just thought you might like to have another outfit."

"But why? I can create my own clothing."

"Of course. But why should you spend your free time doing something you don't enjoy? It wouldn't even be free time any longer. You would just be to work on something else wouldn't you?"

"Yes…But why are you being so kind?" The quandary was placed gently. "I'm not complaining. But I find it somewhat peculiar that you've asked me to accompany you twice now, and you're offering to buy me clothing."

"Well…" Thoughts occupied entire seconds that grew to near minutes. "You don't hate me. And you're not afraid of me. And you're not obsessed with me. I feel like I'm doing something right for once. I want to be your friend because I can't remember the last time I've had a true companion."

"Why did you tell me something so sad?"

"Because it's the truth." Those proud brows dipped beneath a sort of writhing. "I don't want you to hate me."

Unfettered quiet.

"I took Natasha out once. Katya as well. Natasha wouldn't stop clinging to my arm and Katya just seemed nervous. But this is nice. I'm comfortable…And the others. Forget it. It's always the same. I've been trying to be kinder to them, but that doesn't change their feelings toward me. There's no trust left."

"It's like I said, once one takes a position of power, there are immediately unloved. Of course, if you're kind to the ones below you, things can change…I don't know what you've done. But we've all made mistakes. The only way you can feel good about yourself is to do the right thing. And as long as you do that, it doesn't matter what anyone else feels."

"…But it's difficult to change things when they've been the same for so long. I'm tired of being lonely and detested. So it does matter how the others feel. To me it does. That's my entire job, actually. Just to listen to complaints and read government jargon and get nothing but nonsense from my superiors and-" A sigh. "It never ends. I'm sure you know how it is. But regardless, I just want someone to like me. Not be obsessed and fantasize about getting married every moment of the day."

"Well, Ivan…I'm starting to like you. And you don't have to buy me anything to have that happen. You're being kind to me and it's paying off, I promise you. I don't hate you."

"Thank you, Elizaveta."

"Of course."

"Would you like something?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Well actually, I'd like to have a snow ball fight."

"A snow ball fight?"

"Yes. And you better go easy on me. You look strong. I don't want to get hurt."

"I won't hurt you."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." A right arm raised, and the left held to that mighty chest.

"Alright, good." Elizaveta stood and took a few paces, beginning to gather snow within those chilled palms, forming a decent sphere of compacted ice. Ivan did the same, and then they launched.

That pair created their arsenal; they waged playful war and they layered one another in that frigid powder, laughing, screaming, and running. It had been so extraordinarily long since Ivan had felt such unaffected bliss, and so long since that faithful Hungarian had escaped the clutch of her former lover.

They were euphoric around one another, those horrid cracks within either breaking heart beginning to mend, and those troubles temporarily falling to unhappy ash. There was happiness. And within that breaking urn there was gold.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hmm…Ivan."

He was kissing her softly, those once aggressive lips turning to something near loving. Enormous hands held that slender woman's petit shoulders, and bodies drew to such a warm proximity.

And she stroked his nude chest with those adoring blades, grasping onto that wide collarbone as though it was something of a handle.

Their orifices embraced, tongues coiling together as infatuated lovers never intending to let go.

"Natasha…"

Ivan's eyes were well closed.

Again, he seemed to have heavy need to escape that brutal truth, that this woman was not his current and brief infatuation. That she was the same girl who had loved him each of those churning years and he could not even attempt to adore her in return.

There were the feelings of a traitor, not for the obsessive doll's sake, but for that experienced muse. Ivan knew no pleasure was taken at their situation; not in those sparkling emeralds. Elizaveta detested the treatment of that kind Toris and the current use of Natasha's willing flesh.

But there was an excuse- there was always an excuse. Ivan and Natasha were something of a pair. They preformed the actions that most couples do. 'Making love' and leaving kisses upon one another's cheeks, speaking on decent terms, but no emotion controlled that man. No sentiment took hold of him in the least. Yet he did not wish to anger that loving beast, as a tiger that stalks your trail. It was truly not a bother until those fangs acted in ravenous intent. He did not wish to see Natasha shattered. Nor bruised, nor angry.

Because her illogical wrath would affect each of those hapless parties, and they had not even been inside the same area when that grand monster devoured its primary victim.

It was for peace.

Yes. For peace.

Natasha was lowered into those crisp sheets and the Russian man was made to look at her, focuses melding and her sight embellished in fresh affection. A palm traced that unwilling frame, lips parted with seduction.

"You're so handsome, Ivan."

"Thank you." His lips welded momentarily to hers.

That naïve child always enjoyed having that great body upon her, almost as a great breathing cover, guaranteed to keep her from freezing. She did not understand why exactly he was being so gentle, why those presses were so entranced in their affection. But there was not the mere desire to raise inquiry. Because allotting question to something so wondrous might cause its essence to dissipate.

And they descended upon one another, mouths biting and sampling and giving gentle tinges. Hands overtook either soft exterior, palms traveling to those breasts, that chest, those pretty hips, those broad shoulders, those powerful arms, those attractive legs, that hardening member and that moistened crevice.

Honeyed moans found chilled breeze, and that man eased himself so gently into that anticipant woman, who nearly sobbed in euphoria as she found those thrusts to be so passionate. It was as though her exasperated wishes had finally occurred, and no longer was that poor soul left to the pray and pray that her venerated darling would show his adoration for her.

Natasha did not even notice the state of those lidded gems. She did not pay heed to the fact her name was not launched in satisfied tones, nor did she even care. That foolish child was so induced to joy that such minor details were utterly null.

And when that massive form ceased, the near corpse fell to the pretty things' flank, engulfed her in a sudden embrace, somewhat bled of breath himself.

"Oh, Ivan…That was wonderful."

There was not a response, only an anatomy drawn nearer, as though the holder was attempting to muffle those horrid compliments.

They were produced in the correct voice.

Finally, the man answered. "Thank you."

A kindly press was administered to the faux king's neck. "I love you."

"I love you too."

For expansive minutes, they laid together, Ivan beginning to sleep and Natasha simply happy to be caught within such a hold. Usually, the larger would simply collapse at her side and rest short moments before dressing and leaving. Bodies were not intertwined, endearing phrase was not had and Natasha assumed customary action. That Toris was truly too involved and far too delusional.

But this was far in the steps of improvement; although it was thought before that the glass need not be shined.

Yet, such wondrous seconds could not last forever.

"Natasha, I have to go."

"Wait. Just stay a moment. I need to ask you something."

"What is it?"

Another tribute to that strong chest. "Where did you and Elizaveta go last Friday?"

An immediate sigh.

"No…Please don't be upset. I only wonder because I want to be out with you as well. Has that harlot been trying to take you form me? I can see the evil in her eyes."

"Natasha, Elizaveta isn't a harlot. And she's not trying to take me from you. I don't even think she enjoys looking at me. But I don't think she's evil. Elizaveta just wants to go outside. Besides, that woman yells at me too much. If she even wanted to be near me, I don't think she would spend so much time being upset."

"_How dare she?_ How does anyone even find the _gull_ to yell at you? You're doing everything you need to do, and you're doing a good job. Perhaps she's secretly a man. I can't imagine any woman causing such a fuss." A touch from the girl's lips. "She's a fool."

"Hmm…"

"Will you take me out sometime as well, Vanya? We hardly get any time amongst one another as it is. I miss my darling. You must be so lonely in that stupid little office. "

"It is lonely…But I'm extremely busy this week. I don't know if I can take any more time out of my schedule."

"Oh, _Ivan. Please._ I'd love nothing more in the entire world. You know how I adore you."

"I'll see what Wednesday looks like. I know you're free then." The Russian man cringed inwardly, knowing he was not occupied in the least. Natasha would come to his office Wednesday morning and sit and wait until his poor soul was broken into submission. Her voice would not even be raised. That bottom would simply collapse into that cushioned seat kept within that snug little corner and attend so very patiently, hands politely compiled against her lap with a sugared grin strewn all about that overjoyed visage.

Because Ivan had agreed to it.

He could not run now.

"Thank you, love. You're so very sweet to me. If I could, I would buy you chocolates and a new scarf and an entire field of sunflowers. I know how you enjoy them."

"Thank you, Natasha." He wished to exhale air.

That malicious child fell warmly into the man's involuntary embrace and his position was well permanent from that moment on. He could not rise from those sheets, just as he could not avoid wasting entire hours entertaining the one so possessed by him.

So he lied still as Natasha took refuse against his warm body, those frozen limbs screaming in their remorse.

And it was accepted.

The regretful man was bound.


	18. Chapter 18

He had spent hours picking them out. She knew he did. They were lovely for being such basic things. A simple winter dress. A pair of trousers designated for work. A pearly blouse to accompany it.

Elizaveta stole those articles from their home against her bed, so ridden in dust and years, and ran her thumb gently along the cloth of each garment; uncertain if she should hold a stomach writhing in blatant heat or a heart brimming with flattered essence.

Either seemed so very out of place.

So there was a mixture.

The woman was both appalled and touched.

She read the note that lay attached to that pretty gown. It read, simply:

'I thought you should have something to wear out and also something to work in, so you don't need to spend free time doing something you can't stand.

-Ivan.'

Emeralds searing in their plain question rolled over that neat Cyrillic, those pretty letters written with such consideration.

And there had been attention paid to those documents strewn all about his horrid desk, that print not nearly as considerate and far less time consuming.

She could see him, picturing her while holding up those odd satins, standing within whatever store he had selected. Still dressed within his thickened furs and warm cap. He attempted to picture her style, her clothes. Everything about that muse thrown into stitches and bolts of material.

Ivan had done fine job.

Yet, the receiver of those lovely artifacts was not certain if she could indeed accept them, much less place them so carelessly about her flesh, as though they had been _nothing_.

They were not.

These pleasantries devoured a mighty portion of that pensive wallet.

So Elizaveta created another hidden prayer, in her finest hand was well.

'I wish he had not given me these things.'

And then another.

'I wish Katya had a gown of her own.'

And having stowed away that Russian dream, the Hungarian queen found her wardrobe, tearing the poor creature open as an unfortunate monster in a dissection, and she found those venerated organs, locating one in pink, in black, in white in red, in yellow, in orange, in magenta, in peach, in any color one could imagine.

And then she stumbled upon the deepened crimson dress that had never quite fit her correctly. The tailors had crafted the chest far too large, the hips a little too wide. It was still a gorgeous constitution, that pigmentation something well magnanimous and the length perfect for the time of year. Its sleeves were long and that neckline was left to a slight dip; that silken mold was attractive.

It was a dress she wished that had been modeled to her.

But it had not been.

So Elizaveta plucked it from that ancient hanger and folded it against the surface of her expiring sheets. Old new paper was found within her drawer as well as ribbon.

And the make shift gift was wrapped, and the woman who seemed to possess such strange generosity traveled to the unsuspecting victim's room, knocking upon that old oaken surface and paid attention to that answer as a child that had brought upon punishment. Elizaveta's heart raced for a moment, knowing Katya would likely not comfortable accepting such extravagance housed within rotting news print.

The threshold opened.

That sweet Ukrainian doll was clothed within her night gown.

"Hello Elizaveta." Orbs to the package. "What is that?"

"It's nothing." The gift composed of its own charm was forced into the opposing party's arms. "Sleep well." The mad criminal took her leave, dashing down those numerous halls.

And Katya watched her ludicrous friend a puzzling duration, that mass within her confused limbs weighing far more than it should have seemed. "That Elizaveta." Katya knew what it was.

The porthole was shut behind her, and that elderly list of happening was torn from the dress's silken hide, and immediately, that revered fabric unfolded, leaving the unsuspecting woman with palms drenched in crimson.

"Oh my goodness."

A sudden and unending guilt possessed the fresh owner's blood as though she had ingested potent poison. But something malevolent compelled her to try on that glistening layer, as a harsh spirit whispering into her once clean ear.

So the zipper was undone to that scarlet configuration, and the woman's own garment fell from her pallid form, replaced by that boisterous cover. Katya's legs slipped in through that gaping hole, and loosened silk was pulled taunt.

It looked as though it would fit, and it had, for the most part.

That magnificent gown was still somewhat tight within the breast, but it could be mended. Everywhere else, the dangling cloth was perfectly comfortable, space enough for the possessor to move and complete most anything.

And having that attire wrapped around limbs, Katya came to the mirror and regarded her image an instant and perpetual bliss washed over each fragment of her once breathing soul.

"Oh, Elizaveta. You're so kind."

Palms searched that great mountain of material.

And the woman admired herself, her tired face and that nearly newborn dress, how it brought youth back to flesh that had been worked as a loyal slave and had not once raised complaint.

Katya felt beautiful, a sentiment she had not contained for so many long and difficult winters. No one had been so generous to her, for they were all too consumed with their own plight beneath the grand boot of Ivan Braginski.

Her body collapsed upon that bed and she began to cry, that poor worn creature had allowed limbo to devour her entire core with its heaving buckets of filthy cleaning water and all its bruises and aches. To have such a privilege was heavenly.

Katya was beginning to believe her presence was only that of an ant, devoted to servitude.

Had the work finally destroyed her, that cadaver would not have been mourned.

But someone indeed did care, and such wondrous shock brought the woman tears of joy.

And finally, Katya slept well, as did Elizaveta. For a seed of happiness had been planted and it progressed into flourishing nearness.


	19. Chapter 19

Elizaveta watched as they left, Natasha staring at her with her arm shackled to Ivan's. Daggers were sent to the Hungarian, which were promptly returned as sharpened arrows.

And they went away, leaving the woman dressed within her newest layer of flesh, and her mangled broom.

As soon as those grand thresholds shut, the exiled queen was rushing up those innumerable risers, dropping that cleaning utensil and jutting throughout hallways as though she was a small girl who had finally been set to freedom within a vast plain of flowers.

She landed inside Mr. Braginski's glorious office, fire well tended to with healthy flames licking about that intended crevice. Then there was the phone. Sitting upon that polished surface as an innocent knife, begging to be taken and utilized in merciless homicide.

The idea had struck her the moment the Russian man complained of that inevitable date.

Elizaveta had come in and immediately, words against that terrible Natasha were allowed to her, as though she had felt them burning with her very own core.

"Natasha has forced me into an outing."

"Really? How so?"

"She mentioned you and then told me she wanted the same privileges. What was I to say to her? Upsetting that woman is like setting a bear from its cage. I'm her hostage."

"I'm sorry…What time do you have to go?"

"Wednesday morning." The man's brow fell into worn palms.

The woman dared to bend her dainty lips, those gazes accidentally cast upon that pretty machine, as though the moment had called her and those polished numerals had hollered in possibility.

'_Elizaveta, use me._'

And there she stood, days growing from that very incident, pregnant with such developing anticipation. It swelled within her stomach as though those emeralds were witnessing a tidal wave and feet were bolted to the very beach made to house it.

Her heart was rushing, slamming against her fragile ribcage louder and louder with each passing second. Hands quivered within drowning panic, and with strained motion, the nervous warrior leapt for destiny.

And fingers pressed those horrible numbers, spinning the dial as silently as they were capable. That terrible cranking was by far the noisiest shriek that the intruder had ever witnessed, as though the thief's hapless victim was sobbing for help against unwelcome blades.

Then it began to ring.

And Elizaveta's exploding crux dropped into the greatest recess of her stomach.

It rang, and rang, and rang, and rang.

"Pick up you stupid man. If I'm forced to dial again, I'll have a heart attack."

Yet, some part of that worried mind _prayed_ that her darling would not answer, that she could surrender that idiotic mission and sprint back to her abandoned chores. So tears would not streak against her barren cheeks, because she had heard Roderich's honeyed tone; emotion would boil within her heart as a tea kettle upon the fire far too long.

But she was not so fortunate.

"Hello?"

A gasp and her hand protected hose bending lips, blocking amazement within a chamber bearing not a single witness.

"_Hello?_ Is there someone there?"

The breathing doll grasped for confidence before speaking, that blood rushing in such quick time, her limbs could very well burst. "…Roderich?"

It was his turn to pause. "…Elizaveta? Is that you?"

Another heavy breath. "Yes. Yes, darling…It's me."

The Austrian could not conjure thought or a short period. And softly, he spoke. "How are you? Is everything alright?"

"I'm alright…I miss you." And the arrival of those expected sentiments. The former empress choked upon memory. "It's so nice to hear your voice again. I thought I never would."

"I know…" The man so many countries away held the same overflowing glisten within his saddened eyes. "It's not the same without you here…I can't play my piano; I can't work. I can hardly even sleep." Roderich wiped emotion from those snowy cheeks. "Are they treating you well?"

"Yes." Elizaveta swallowed her misery. "It's cold here. And I'm hungry…But there are kind people. I'm already yelling at Mr. Braginski." She exhibited saddened laughter, palms behaving as handkerchiefs. "The work is hard, but it's truly not so bad…the worst part if your absence. I always dream of you-"That horrid yearning overtook her throat. "I love you."

"I love you too…I would dream of you, but I think of you so frequently, I can't rest. All I do is worry." Roderich removed those fogging spectacles. "Why are you hungry, darling? They feed you, don't they?"

"They're trying. We're at a shortage of food. No one's stomach is full. Not even Ivan's. But please, don't worry about me. I'm alright. How have you been? Please tell me you're fine. Please tell me you sleep at least sometimes…" Another hard swallow. "I wish I could see your face. I know you're going to lie to me."

There was a miserable outburst of mirth. "You're right. I was." A sleeve removed that growing river. "I can sleep sometimes, darling. But I don't think I'm alright. Is it strange to speak German? You have a slight accent…"

A shortened laugh, infected in solemn spirit. "I know I do. It's been so long…It just makes me miss you more. I was beginning to dream in Russian. Am I even Hungarian?"

"I don't know what you are. But you're still mine. Aren't you?"

"Of course I am! I can't belong to anyone else. I left my heart in your palms. Maybe that's why I can't breathe properly. It's difficult when nothing works."

"Oh, Elizaveta. I want to hold you…"

"I know, Roderich. I wish you could. I'd give a limb just to be in your arms."

A pause drowning in that broken feeling. "I miss you…"

"I miss you too, Roderich…I can't even tell you how much it hurts." A gasp. "I'm sorry I haven't answered your letter yet. I haven't found the right words."

"That's alright, darling, I understand."

And for a moment, either curled into their souls, sobs leaking from their lips and heart bleeding in pent-up sorrow and rage and raw loss. It was as speaking to the phantom of a lover long past. They brought one another to those stowed recollections and sentiments heavy within aching constitution, kept beneath veils of duty and bitter distraction.

But those wounds had been reopened, passionate crimson wetting that mighty battlefield.

The dying souls did not make attempt to cease the imminent bleeding. They only twined their fingers, watching as that sky filled in past and forgotten memoires clouded with so many lost souls.

"I love you, darling."

"I love you Elizaveta."

Another gasp for oxygen. "I should go. I'm not supposed to be speaking with you, but I couldn't handle anymore seclusion…Your voice was beginning to fade and it's just too damn beautiful to allow to time."

"I understand, love. Please don't get yourself in trouble over me. I've missed you. Please, take care of yourself."

"I will, Roderich. Please try and rest. I love you."

"I love you, Elizaveta. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

And with tears streaming, the stricken muse allowed the device in rest, collapsing about that horrid and frigid collection of boards, tears leaking from her battered wells as a faucet left unattended to. Elizaveta's head leaned against that grand bureau and her core, infected in lacerations, bled through those gorgeous eyes.

She noticed that boy standing stupidly at the gaping door, an expression strewn about his face as though he had just witnessed something profoundly wrong.

"Raivis…" The whisper rose above the misery it waged war with, that shattered slave a new mix of panic and dejection.

He stepped forward. "I won't tell anyone, Elizaveta. I promise." Those blond brows wilted. "I hate Ivan more than you can imagine. So you can trust me."

"Thank you…"

"Of course." The child glanced behind him. "I'll leave you alone. But you should think of going soon. This isn't a good place to be found."

"I will…" Those swollen windows were robbed of their fluid. "Thank you."

There was only a nod and that youth left the dying woman to her sickness.

It was decent minutes before that shattered queen took to those writhing ankles, managing steps built off such longing and more remnants of that once towering love.

And she returned to her broom, a servant with a container of new sores.

They all regarded her; uncertain of what traumatic event had ensued to smear such destitution about that once glowing visage.

Katya could not even find the will to allow thanks upon her shoulders, after bearing witness to such an unchanging mask. Instead, the Hungarian was embraced, and as that considerate hold descended against her helpless flesh, hidden sentiment infected those gems, and the criminal sobbed as the child who had consciously sinned.

Elizaveta could not sleep that night.

Her heart cried too loudly.


	20. Chapter 20

Elizaveta could not ease the pain of that missing day, and her lover's voice would not leave her mind, vexing her heavily as insanity, an echo within an expanding cave. It was her free hours, and she sat upon her bed, clothed inside that fresh dress, wells injected with rouge and cheeks left bland and colorless. Exhaustion wore upon her visage as sandpaper against flesh. Her reunited minutes brought healthy pain back to the forefront of her worn fingers. Those lacerations had been opened wider.

And it was the shattered slave's own decision.

Elizaveta should not have called him.

But again, that realm of silence was shaken only by the aggressive hands of Ivan Braginski. There was a knock against the door.

"Come in." Tears were cleaned and the woman's breast filled with panic.

An entrance was made, and Ivan regarded the one piled upon those crinkled sheets, those eyes revealing everything her very own crux was unwilling to convey. They were traitors.

"I was told you were upset."

"Who said that to you?"

"Katya. I spoke with her yesterday. She told me of the dress you gave her. That was kind of you."

A slight gasp and ebbing sentiment at the base of that throat. "Thank you…But I'm not upset." A swallow.

"Elizaveta, I can see that you've been crying." That towering man once again took inhabitance at her side, regarding her with raw orbs so full of azure ember.

And the woman stared in return, proud and indignant. There was still that grand struggle between her expression and the tense state of that rushing blood, coursing through her as horses in competition.

"I know you used the phone yesterday." His tone was completely even. A minute smile even took to his lips. "You left your fingers prints all over it. And you're the only one with enough nerve to even attempt something like that…Did you speak with him?"

The Hungarian's heart dissolved within her chest, and with forming passionate glass and mutilated lips, she nodded, begging o sob. Hands protected that weeping visage as immediate apology drained. "I'm sorry." Elizaveta could not explain herself, so she allowed utter pain to speak.

"Stand up."

The command was heard but the reaction was slow; the man utilized his greatest patience and watched with that intelligent sight as the shattered creature followed those instructions.

And he rose as well, taking few paces before the conflicted doll and studying her only a moment.

"I'm sorry, Ivan…"

The ruler did not make comment, only opened those large arms wide and engulfed the brave woman inside their presence. It was as receiving embrace from a weighty fur coat, or falling into a great vat of dense water. Elizaveta was not left to brutal air, but absorbed into that enormous man's figure. His chin rested upon her crown and strange warmth brought upon the arrival of even more misshapen outcries.

That warrior allowed her arms to the captor and submitted to that wondrous comfort, dejection falling from her writing mouth as water spouting from a venerated fountain. Suddenly, that proud and unbreakable muse was sobbing as a hurt child in the hands of a careful parent, and nothing could be done to cease that perpetual sorrow.

The larger still made an attempt.

"I'm not upset with you, nor am I going to punish you." Massive palms drew the woman in nearer. "I knew you were going to do it the moment you asked about the phone…I could see it in your eyes."

The Russian fell silent as Elizaveta began to calm.

"Please don't do that again. I'm going to let it go and trust you, but please, Elizaveta. Just follow the rules."

"I will…" A hand was taken from its duty of holding that forgiving man and wiped away a fragment of those soaking thoughts. "I'm sorry that I didn't listen. I just wanted to speak with him so badly…But now it's like saying good-bye a second time." A slight gasp. "It wasn't against you. Part of me honestly wished he wouldn't pick up. Because I knew it would hurt…But I missed Roderich so strongly…" Another quiet outburst. "I'm sorry…"

"It's alright. Just promise me you won't use the phone again, and I'll forget that this even occurred."

"I promise I won't."

It saddened that longing admirer to make such a pact, but how could there be refusal? Ivan had been kind when he was on the grounds to sentence that time thief to near purgatory. And he did not. Elizaveta knew she was breaking laws and committing crime the moment that device endured her needy touch. Instead of leaving that incident with bruises and harm, the felon received a grand embrace and gentle word. To deny such a request after endearing generosity would be plain treason.

"Thank you, Ivan."

"Of course…How do you like your gown?"

"It's very nice. But you didn't need to buy me clothing."

"I know. But I don't care. You needed something more casual." The man pulled from the woman's hold, placing palms against those petit shoulders. "Are you alright, Elizaveta?"

"Yes, I am." Demure numerals cleansed sadness. "Thank you. And thank you for the clothing." Another calming struggle for breath. "I'm sorry about this, and what I had done. I'm usually not so upset. But it's been a hard transition for me."

The Russian man administered his nod, removing those grasps from shapely ledges. "I understand…It's not an easy place to be in. That's why I figured you'd like to get out. I recall you inviting me out the last time we left."

"Oh yes…" Sorrow was gulped down as a strong and sobering pill. "Would you like to go out today?" Those dying embers were brought back to conflagration, and the one so usually controlled by impassioned flame arose as a new phoenix from dead ash. "I know you were just with Natasha. But I'm certain you'd like to wash the bad taste from your mouth."

Ivan laughed. The warrior was herself. "Yes. That would be nice. I was thinking of scraping it off with a razor. But I think washing memories away with distraction would be far more pleasant. I simply don't know what to do."

"We could go to the post office…I answered Roderich's letter."

"Ah…That's one thing." The kindly dictator stole his spot upon that shifting mattress.

Once again, Elizaveta exhibited a fragment of her bliss. And then she joined her companion against those elderly sheets. "Yes. Maybe we can go to the park and build a snow man this time, or go to the cinema again."

"Maybe we could leave and never come back."

"Yes. Or we could rob a bank."

"And then burn it down afterwards."

"We could shoot someone."

"Oh, we _have_ to shoot someone. That would occur no matter what we decided to do."

"You're right. What was I thinking?"

"I'm not sure."

Elizaveta grinned, attention falling to her worn feet with a tinge of sadness inside those still shimmering orbs. "I don't know, Ivan. You can pick. It doesn't really matter. I just need to stretch these legs." Her sight befell those digits crossed about her lap. "Why don't you tell me what you did with Natasha yesterday?"

"We took an incredibly long walk. If anything, it was what could be expected. Just short, awkward conversations and her constant glares to any woman who even managed to glance at us. I'm uncertain as to who wouldn't look, because she was so possessed with making it so well know we were together. The woman hung onto my arm so tightly, I thought if I let my guard down, I'd find a puddle of blood beneath me and a gaping hole in my shoulder."

"Why did you agree to go?" That lovely face held an expression of near sympathy. "Is it because she's pretty?"

"No. I would be a hypocrite if I didn't take her. You know I would. And she would be even angrier with you. You would have me more than she did."

Elizaveta only sighed. "Does she even have you now?"

"No. Only enough to keep the peace. I don't love her. I'm not even sure if I like her."

"Then why do you play such games? You know you're toying with her. It's grossly unfair, even if Natasha isn't exactly the most pleasant of women."

"I'm toying with her? She's toying with me. The moment I tell her the truth, the entire house will be in an uproar. Natasha had been upset before. I would stop it but…"

"But you enjoy the sex." Elizaveta gave a smile filled with sly truth.

"Well, it's a difficult thing not to enjoy."

"It's not right to use her that way. She really believes you love her."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then you should tell her how you feel. She'll find out one day, Ivan. And then it's only going to be worse because her delusions would be so old. It's like living your entire life and believing you were born to your parents, only to be told in adulthood you were adopted. That's not fair."

"I know. And you're right. But you should know it's not so simple. It is Natasha we're speaking of."

"Yes. Regardless, it's not correct, of course forgetting the reasons."

The Russian man did not speak.

"I'm sorry if you find me unpleasant."

"It's not you Elizaveta. I hate to admit that I'm wrong."

"Oh I see." There was another simper upon the woman's orifice. "Well, what would you like to do?"

"We can walk. I wouldn't mind going to the post office."

"Alright." Those petit heels kissed the rotting boards centered beneath them and the body so connected returned to the grand wardrobe, the fur coat plucked from its lonesome innards and slipped around those same blades just affected by the man's touch. The letter was taken from the desk's protective surface and then their eyes fell into a kind of silent tango. "We should go then."

A movement of that head and a rising anatomy. Ivan joined Elizaveta, temped to link his arm around hers, and they progressed along that great compilation of stairs, as a glorious collection of classical books, numerous as the termites that devoured them.

And after boots connected with those limbs, paradise was entered, each of those house mates left behind to their chores and their dejection.

Something within the faux king's heart flourished. For once, he had realized gathering sorrow and turned it to fancy, despite his counterpart's mal opinion towards the perishing relationship involving the tyrannical wench. But it was not pertinent. By sparing mangled punishment, that lovely flower's core had lightened, and no longer did pain tear form her luminous eyes. Bandaging those metaphysical wounds had served to cause happiness.

And in all honesty, had the Hungarian jewel asked to use the phone, despite himself, Ivan would have allowed her to. But had it been any other, even the brutal and demanding Natasha, it would not have even been put to consideration.

There was minor injury taken that the former queen felt she could not inquire.

Why punish someone for performing an action that was allowed? Even if those glistening privileges were meant only for them to sample.

When they reached that edifice, it was Ivan who once again claimed that handsome envelope and placed it within the office's hand, leaving to find his loyal belle awaiting him.

The man knew he was being well indecent for imagining Elizaveta as his own, but morals do not damage feeling. Logic and sentiment were two cardinal areas any one person possessed, but were different as the hues of red and green, two entire hemispheres apart. The coexisted, but could not connect, as two strong magnets repelling.

Elizaveta was a beautiful woman. And despite her passionate and opinionated edges, she was kind. A goddess who must occasionally scold. But who is heavenly none the less.

They walked about that barren town, the only pair mad enough to venture out in such profound snow. Flakes adhered to their coats as well as rouge inflicted their cheeks, either cast in a veil of comfortable silence. Thought devoured them and became their universe, and word was not required in their company, but it was interjected regardless.

"How has your day been Ivan?"

"Besides the distressed damsels, it's been well."

He was nudged with a playful elbow. "I can't help being upset sometimes. I miss my familiars. What did you expect?"

"Nothing less. As I said, I understand."

Steps taken in solace.

"Where did you go, Ivan? You say you understand, but you never tell me how."

"I was at war."

And then the stillness, as those pores absorbed all the information they had been made to accept. The Hungarian was something as a slow sponge.

"Truly?"

"Yes. I fought those Nazis with my entire heart."

The woman nodded. "Good. I blame them entirely for my situation. If I had the choice, I would have fought them as well. But they bent me backwards. I believe Roderich was treated with even more brutality. We both watched as those pretty streets were overrun with horrible red flags…" Brows were weighed down. "They tore me from him."

"I'm sorry, Elizaveta." The man cast eyes upon the muse at his side. "But I have to say, I'm relieved to hear you say that."

"Oh? Did you think I would side with them? God, no…" Earthen orbs drew towards the man. "What about you? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Luckily, I wasn't shot or damaged too heavily."

"Where did they station you?"

"In Russia. But it was still difficult…They had me away from home for years. It was horrible; really. So I truly do understand what you feel. It's harsh."

"It is…But what was it like to return?"

"It was…wonderful and terrible. The entire way back I was nearly shaking. But when I set foot inside those old doors…it was like nothing had changed. Time had just frozen and resumed the moment I returned. Everyone was still where they were. And Natasha had not forgotten about me." There was a thoughtful hush. "I remember being disappointed, because she and Katya were the only two who were there to meet me. And I know Katya was only there out of obligation. The others…I don't know. It's like they forgot I was coming home, even though they received messages giving my date of return." The man with such stature grew solemn. "I brought it upon myself. I heard them under their breaths. Raivis said he wished that I was shot."

Elizaveta regarded that soul within a new light, nearly yearning to embrace him. But she held her composure, because she indeed was a woman of status, despite those near rags coded within rich fur. The inside of her wardrobe and her very crux attested to the truth.

"But as I said, I bring these things upon myself. I don't have a right to be surprised."

"I'm sorry, Ivan. But things are improving, aren't they?"

"Slightly. I still feel severely unpopular."

"Well, change is gradual. Besides, I like you."

"You like me?" a grin. "I feel like I've won a trophy. Can I shove you in my display case?"

"No. I'm afraid not. There are things I have to do every day and if I'm stuck in a display case, I won't be able to do anything." Gazes melded. "But you can make a golden statue of me and erect it where the flagpole is. I know you were planning in doing so anyway."

"Oh yes. I forgot about that."

"How do you forget about a giant golden statue?"

"I don't know, Elizaveta. I'm usually occupied."

"Oh I see. Work comes first."

"Yes. But I like you more."

The siren laughed. "It's nice to know I'm better than boring documents. I was hoping you felt that way." Those mounds pursed. "Thank you." Sights were cast. "You're being quite kind to me."

"Of course. You've earned it. I'm not generally kind to people who treat me badly."

"I didn't expect you would be. Regardless, thank you for these clothes and your forgiveness. When you told me you knew, I thought you were going to decapitate me."

"Oh, no. maybe amputates a few limbs, but not _decapitate_ you. That's just horrible."

Another edition of mirth.

"It's good to see you're feeling better, Elizaveta."

"Thank you…I am feeling better."

"Would you like to return soon?"

A steady movement in calculations. "No…Even though it is rather chilly out. I always feel lonely in that house…"

"Well, I can't blame you. It's a depressing place to be."

So the pair continued marking their path within that ebbing frost, regarding one another, speaking their pretty words lined in benevolence. And Ivan fell deeper into that grand well of nearly blinding adoration. He did not allow himself that realization, nor would there be admittance to affections toward that stolen Lorelei. But they existed wholly, as the phantoms within that very institution either took their inhabitance in; even though they could not be spotted, voices still rang from all those lingering transgressions.


	21. Chapter 21

'I wish we had a miracle.'

They had almost run out of food. The cabinets were barren; the spices null. There was not even salt. No bread, no grain, nothing. Their stomachs turned to sick voids, their bones weak, their muscles limp. And each of them, even the ruler himself prayed.

And then the Austrian god answered those calls.

Perhaps only hers.

Ivan sat at his desk, looking through the helpless innards of that package. The letter to Elizaveta was found, a great bag of rice (something of a delicacy), numerous loaves of bread, however stale they might have been, pickled peppers, spices, meats that had been dried and preserved, and materials to make porridge. It was not the most luxurious of nourishment. But from weeks of fading meals, it was a god send, something that had been dropped from those heavenly golden clouds and took its refuge upon Mr. Braginski's desk.

The faux tsar examined each of those shimmering goods, rubbing his hands upon the forbidden supplements as though his powerful numerals were experiencing a golden woman for the first time.

One of those peppers was sampled.

Then the photo album was found.

It had taken sad residency at the base of that worn container, and Ivan knew the moment he laid gaze upon it that these pages were only meant for the Hungarian Queen's eyes.

So gently, he opened that grand volume and softly fingered those leaves. A note was written in handsome German on the back if the cover, which had been embellished in beautiful white lace. He did not understand those words, yet there was appreciation born. Roderich had taken his time to make that parchment slightly.

Then attention moved to the actual photographs occupying those ageing editions, a legion composed of pretty memoirs, their wedding day, their companions, that magnificent cake so many stories high. So many photographs contained Elizaveta, wearing that untouchable pearly dress and utilizing a smile that could illuminate a darkened horizon pregnant with stars. The light surrounded her as if she was a glowing deity, and not a single bitter remark could remove that glorious muse from her pedestal.

Elizaveta was beautiful.

Ivan dived through a few more of those enumerated memories, finding portraits of his darling idol in fantastic gowns and standing at the flank of her sweetened man. They looked right together, as though that pair had been constructed by God's passionate hands and dropped into one another's embrace. They were only missing wings lavish in unbendable manila feathers.

And when he passed those glittering works, he found the ones Roderich had photographed himself, and Ivan only knew because that Austrian's appearance was not evident, yet the woman still wore bliss upon her glowing expression.

The Russian man experienced their life amongst one another, all those gorgeous simpers and glistening instances, the Christmases, the birthdays, all those holidays drenched in rich perfection. The ribbons and pearls and utter pulchritude of their existence. The unfettered joy. All expressed in those moving frames.

The man grew jealous.

Not due to that glittering inhabitance of comfort and expense. No. Because the same form of love could not be shared between he and another. There was no true woman for him, although he was well aware of the one he desired. But Ivan could not be Roderich, and he was informed to that bitter truth in each of those photographs. He could not resembled the man; he could not dress as he did; he could not adopt spectacles; he could not place a pretty mole beneath his strange lips he could not decrease his size and he could not become Austrian; Ivan could not speak German and find the same accent Roderich used. He simply could not be the incarnation of all Elizaveta's hackneyed affections, which wore the one who carried them thin.

And it brought blood to intense conflagration. It devoured his heart and refused to return it. There were only ashes left to fall around him as mocking confetti.

The page was turned.

And the next.

And the next.

And then the proceeding several.

Until he reached the end. And even his face grew to something rosy, as though that towering man had been converted to the innocent boy who had yet to witness another's flesh.

The doll was covered beneath a layer of thin sheet, her chest exposed to light and her arms poised above her head, with those magnificent and glistening tresses strewn about the pillow beneath them.

She was nude.

Roderich likely took it as his gem was taking her morning, breaking from that realm of dreams and coming to the sight of her darling husband.

Ivan could not blame him for capturing such a shot.

Elizaveta was gorgeous. She was always gorgeous.

The album was closed and set amongst those numerous and stolen gifts. The starving man had forgotten they did not belong to him, taking up one of those old loaves and stealing a bite. It was not fantastic, but it was indeed nourishment and suddenly, Ivan realized how famished he truly was.

The entire edition of bread was devoured in sordid need.

And then Elizaveta was called.

It did not take her long to appear.

"What did you need, Ivan?" The voice was sweetened, and those gazes touched to the food stacked upon the surface, along with the letter and the collection of gorgeous and still occurrences. The emptied container as well. "Did you look through my mail? How dare you?"

"Elizaveta, I have to. Anytime someone gets a package, I look through it."

"Why? Did you look though my photo album as well?"

"No. I only removed it from the box." They stared at one another. The emeralds far more passionate than those poor sapphires Ivan possessed. After glancing through such joyous breath, it was hard to picture that lovely woman with such angered sight. "Listen you're going to share this…"

"Don't you tell me what I'm going to do with _my_ mail. If I had opened it myself, I would have undoubtedly shared. But why should I? It's _mine._ When I'm out of my room do you go through my things as well? Thank you keeping us all safe by alienating me and from the looks of it, taking _my_ food. I can see the crumbs on your clothing." The woman came forward, packing up her things inside that worn cardboard case.

"Elizaveta, stop it!"

"_No!_" The half full container was slammed upon that fine bureau. "You stop! If you want people to like you, then stop doing things like this!" The peppers were next to find inhabitance within that battered flat. "It's unnecessary!"

"_Elizaveta!_"

"_No!_ Shut your mouth! You want someone to speak with, _go fuck Natasha!_ I'm done listening!"The album and the envelope. "Since you already took my food, I won't be giving you anything when I make dinner tonight and I'll strangle that little bitch if she even _tries_ to bring you a plate!"

The man did not mold comment, only observed as that woman exited either her package so brimming in exhausted flavor.

And then time dissolved anger as salt into water. Elizaveta used those materials in care, making sure that not too much of those grains expired within those pots and pans. Wasting necessity was utterly foolish, and a mistake one could not possibly afford. So those portions were limited, but there was not a single complaint. Those fragments of odd nourishment filled those stomachs as a feast, having been voided so very long.

They thanked her, and Elizaveta ridded hot blood of all her rage.

She brought Ivan a plate herself after enduring an argument with Natasha.

The man was found at the very same location she was left in, and the once angered goddess came in with soft feet and a kindly voice.

"Ivan…"

"Have you come to demean me anymore?"

"No." Those sols drew nearer, and the plate was set before that office slave. "I'm sorry. It upset me that you looked through my things, but it's alright. You forgave me when I disobeyed you, and you were kind…I'm sorry I yelled at you. You didn't deserve that, especially when you've been patient with me. So I apologize for my cruel words."

"It's alright, Elizaveta. I'm sorry I opened your box. I ate one of you peppers too."

"Well. You ate my food and I screamed at you and then we apologized. I forgive you. And I probably would have given you that much anyway. I'm not upset anymore." There was that glowing simper. "I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass. I don't mean to be."

"I know you don't Elizaveta. I'm sorry I upset you sometimes. I don't mean to make you angry."

"I know you don't, Ivan." The woman offered pursed and curling mounds. "Can we go outside sometime?"

"I'd like that…Thank you. And thank you for the food." A bite was taken. "Did the others eat yet?"

"Yes. They have."

"Then I'm going to eat downstairs for once. Will you come with me?"

"Yes. I will…Is that why you usually don't come down? Because the others are there?"

"In a way. It's awkward. I can feel that they don't like my presence there. But that's not important." The plate was lifted and stiffened joints cried in their movement.

"It might be different now."

"Don't worry about me, Elizaveta."

"We're friends, aren't we?" Not a single beat was left.

"I don't know. Are we? I'd like to be…"

"I think we are. And if you're going to be my friend, I'm going to worry about you. That's what I do when I'm not making your ears bleed." Elizaveta smiled.

"Do you really yell so much? At everyone?"

Laughter. "No. But it doesn't mean anything. I try not to hate anyone. Even Natasha. And I yell at her almost every time we speak. I even yelled at her today. But I already told you that I liked you."

"Do you still like me? Even after I stole you bread and ate a pepper?"

"Well, do you still like me? I used your phone even after you told me not to."

"Whoever said I liked you?"

A bite against that muscular arm. "Stop! You're going to hurt my feelings."

The Russian contained his mirth within illuminating cheeks. "Yes. I still like you, Elizaveta."

"Good you better like me."

Those two progressed down those winding steps, connection growing between them as knotting ribbon. There were those sweetened glances, the man admiring the gorgeous flower set at his very right. Ivan's heart grew evident within his heavy chest, and for the first instance in years, those beats were heard. That hated outcast finally found friendship and affection that held him as potent opium.

It did not matter that the siren occasionally cried and hollered in passionate protest. There was always a right to her conflagrations. Those maddened howls came in logic, and despite their existence, the donor could be honeyed as wondrous confections.

Ivan loved her all the more due to those short comings.

So they ate amongst one another, laughing, speaking and understanding. Conflict resolved and those fantastic rays finally destroyed the oppressive grey clouds constantly lacing that vindictive plane.

Ivan was happy.

And so was Elizaveta.

Either went to bed later that evening, phrase ringing within their minds. And they slept well. Dreams wrapping them in sugared embrace.


	22. Chapter 22

He stood before that store window, the wallet secured within that great fur coat weighing against his thigh as an anvil composed of diamond. The case gleamed in all its lavish gems, and the melded gold glistened in all its perfected forms. The bracelets, the necklaces, the charms, the pendants, everything. Each article sparkled with its own seductive allure, and even a single fragment could serve to shatter a woman's heart.

He was there intentionally.

A vindictive spirit had possessed Ivan Braginski and dragged him to the shop window, his sanity bombarded with his heart's horrid screams and his logic's utter folly. All he was capable of seeing was that muse, her fiery emerald soul breaking from lengthily lashes and that pretty visage so framed in a marvelous cascade of perfect tresses.

Lovesickness had struck as lighting from a cloudless sky.

And it had electrocuted the unsuspecting man, who had not the opportunity to run, or even anticipate.

So there Ivan was, standing before a shop window drowned in pleasant articles, bottom lip slack and vision saturated in all his fatal consideration.

Women, both inside the shop and out, attached their brief interest to him, wondering what exactly was wrong with that grand statue and why exactly he was incapable of motion. Why would anyone wish to remain idle in such a bitter frost? It was simply ludicrous.

So, that whirlwind of consideration brought comment.

"Excuse me?" The door to that small flat was opened. "Sir, can I help you with something?"

"Oh. What?" Azure wells came to the one so composed at the threshold. Her arms crossed and her hair wound tightly upon her crown. "Yes. I'm sorry…I wanted to buy a bracelet for someone."

"A woman?" A grin. "Your wife?"

"No. I'm not married."

"Oh. Just a lady friend. Is she pretty?"

"Yes. She's beautiful." Ivan questioned the mere purpose of this odd conversation, but did not rebel against it, answering those inquiries as though they were something utterly natural.

"Have you kissed her yet?"

"No."

"Well…I'm sure you will after you give her that new bracelet. Come in. We'll pick out something nice for her." An even more amused smirk. "What's her name?"

"Elizaveta." Ivan's burly feet led him to those frothy risers, and that lovely shop was offered to him as a fantastic confection against a golden platter.

"She sounds lovely." The man was lead t yet another case, that edition layered in fantastic gems, all aliened one next to the other. There were simplistic chains of diamonds and aurous hue, as well as demure silver chains put together in such a sweet manner. There were watches surrounded in shimmering trinkets with rubies and emeralds and all sorts of pigments, as though Ivan had been offered a box of sundry chocolates.

And then, a certain piece tore even his heart, a sterling linked ringlet with pearls lining each space in between those brilliant editions of silver. It held both class and beauty, and shined brighter than its companions; there was no other piece that could attempt to compare to that wonderfully crafted article. The Russian man knew it belonged to her, even after only minutes of searching.

"Do you see something you like?"

"Yes. The one with the pearls near the bottom."

"It's an excellent choice. Is that all you wanted today?"

"Yes. That's all."

"I'll get it for you, and we'll check out."

And Ivan stood and regarded that keeper at her duty, placing that wondrous article inside its matching container and presenting it to the one who possessed it.

The money was paid and the receipt was put to creation. And the man was allowed his absence, that right taken only with a singular perfected box in all its glisten, that ivory flesh and that pretty clasp that held it shut.

And he wondered what exactly he was trying to accomplish.

Elizaveta did not love him. Perhaps she never would. Her core, so full of intense passion, would forever belong to that Austrian man who both served to irritate and nourish his emptied stomach.

It was ridiculous.

But how would that gorgeous woman react to this, to such a shining advance? If he was to grant that bracelet to her dainty wrist, intention would become clear as a polished mirror, and that entire soul would be spotted as a drop of blood against a stark white cloth.

And then she would reject him, become enraged and make any form of relationship impossible, an organism without water. Even attempting at reconstitution would bring bloodied hands and sticking sorrow.

As sore as that heart was already…Ivan could not afford to anger her. They would never speak again, and Elizaveta was the nearest thing he had to a true companion.

If that was tarnished, there would be no one but that horrible Natasha, who was incredibly vindictive as it was. It was clear, all but to her, that Ivan did not hold affection for that childish girl who had fallen so deeply into the well of adoration.

Nothing could save her.

The man sighed, stowing that gift inside his uninhabited pocket, and managing to progress forward within that lightened storm. It felt as though precious income was wasted upon something that would sit within a pocket and rot. As though having the bracelet itself alleviated that blindness only momentarily.

The faux kind felt foolish, and in his ill informed decision, those gargantuan boots trampled on, that warmed chest left a fractured shell by means of its own action.

Then the incident was forgotten, as though the man had gone out for nothing.


	23. Chapter 23

Elizaveta completed her response to her darling Austrian and sealed it within the protective flesh of an envelope. Addresses lined it. It was licked and closed, and the temporarily free woman who had completed each of her awful chores went to see the ruler of that kingdom, note within her triumphant palm.

A knock came to his throne room and the warrior was allowed in.

"Hello, Elizaveta." Something beneath those large hands was branded in official approval, and sight adhered to the one so much infatuation was granted to. The woman's flesh was embellished in sweetened attention, as the hide of a sugared plumb. "How can I help you?"

"I brought my letter to Roderich."

"I see."

The manila notice pressed to that polished desk.

"Does it upset you that I took a short break? I'll do more work."

"No. That's alright. I wanted to speak with you about something anyway. Why don't you sit down?"

"Of course. I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"No. You haven't done anything wrong…Yet."

"Yet?" A laugh saturated in that sweetened charm, and that doll was given place within that comforting chair. "Why are you working today anyway? Shouldn't you be lying around?"

"I should be. But I couldn't work yesterday. My mind was too clouded with thought, so I went outside. And now I've wasted too much time. Why did you even mention lying around? I'm exhausted."

"I'm sorry…What did you want to speak about?"

The pen was set upon that accumulating mountain of protocol. "I was thinking, perhaps you'd like to change your free day to Friday."

"Friday? That's the same day you have." The woman slightly tilted her head, giving a grin flushed in impish play. "Just how much do you like me, Mr. Braginski?"

"It's not really about how much I like you, just a matter of convenience. If we both had the same day-"

"There won't be any extra time."

"Exactly. As you can see, I'm up to my neck in papers and we didn't even go out yesterday."

"No… It makes more sense, I suppose. Still, doesn't this break the rules? You know; the ones you're so strict about? If you let me go out all by myself I could still have Thursday and you would still have Friday and no one's going to look at this strangely. Don't you think Toris will want the same day at Natasha? And then Natasha will want Friday as well."

"So you'd rather go out alone than be with me?"

"No. I enjoy your company. But it seems that you're going to anger a lot of people by allowing his. Not to mention the fact that I'm not able to leave sparked our time together…You know that Natasha will try and decapitate me once she finds out. Once I show up on Thursday, she'll know."

"I know she will. But it doesn't matter. She'll get over it when she hears my reasons."

"She once threw a tantrum because she thought I was trying to take you from her. She knocked over an entire pot of scolding water…"

"Well, _are_ you trying to take me from her?"

"How can I steal something that no one owns? The only one who belongs to her is poor Toris and she doesn't even want him...The mere fact that we're friends upsets her. Don't tell me she won't be enraged. Even after hearing your logic. I'm the thorn she can't dig out and I didn't want to be present in the first place. I already have a man. Why would I need another?"

"I don't know, Elizaveta." Something within the man's heart sunk deeply within that writhing stomach. "But don't worry about Natasha. I'll take care of everything.

"How? Are you going to tell her that you're moving my day to Friday? She might go easier on you than me."

"To be honest, I'm not certain. But I'll work this out. Somehow, I always do…" A large palm brushed past those temples, and the man released a storm of frustrated air. "I need a cigar. Do you want to come outside with me?"

"How far are you going?"

"The garden."

"Then I'll go." The muse rose. "But what do you want me to do after this?"

"Cook." A drawer opened and one of those healthy rolls was removed from it, along with a box of fine matches. "You don't have to anything besides make the meals."

"But why?"

"You don't get one my nerves. There's no reason to force you to work when you've done what I've asked."

"…I'll help you. I know those documents need organizing. I would help Roderich with managing papers as well. I didn't sign them, but I can put them into envelopes and I wrote addresses. And that's quite the pile."

"Would you mind? It's a terrible job."

"Yes. It is. But you should be able to take a break and not have to be put back into slavery as soon as it's over. Besides, Don't I seem like I need something to do? Look at me. I'll just get into trouble the moment you set me loose. And I already killed a man today."

"Did you burn down his house too?"

"Oh, that's _how_ I killed him."

A smile. "You're probably right. I can see it in your eyes. The minute you have free time, you'll likely burn down half of this city."

"The whole thing if you give me enough."

"You see? And you wonder why you're not allowed out."

Mirth infected the queen's visage. "You'd think the snow would prevent them from going up in flames. Even the weather runs when it sees me coming." Another of those curls. "Why don't we go to the garden? I'll light your cigar."

"Thank you, Elizaveta."

"Of course."

So Ivan and Elizaveta moved down those numerous steps and gathered their coats, either matching one another in blatant luxury. The man brushed away that collection of rotting snow for his darling companion and either sat down, observing that once bustling field so muddled inside the winter's thick frost.

A tinge of sadness clung to Elizaveta, as the flakes drifting from that grey sky.

"I wish there were flowers. And blossoms on the trees. Winter always seems to break my heart, no matter where I am."

"It must be especially bad here."

"Well…It's cold. But so was Austria. And Hungary. It's always solemn."

"What's your favorite season?"

"Spring. How about yours?"

"I like fall…And summer. And spring. Anything that isn't winter. I hate winter more than anything."

"_Anything?_"

"Anything. It's always been my worst enemy. I grow hungry and frozen. It's difficult to watch because I know I'm not the only one. I'm glad Roderich sent food."

"I am too. He's a kind man."

"Hmm…" the cigar was finally allowed to exhale smoke. "Do you like it here, Elizaveta?"

Those earthen orbs spoke to the heavens, her breath visible and her frown evident. "I though only women were able to ask impossible questions. What do you think you're doing, Ivan?" Elizaveta glanced to him, a saddened curve affecting her mouth. "Well, what do you want me to say?"

"I just want the truth."

"Fine. But give me a puff of that cigar first."

"You smoke?"

"No…But Roderich did. He would always let me have a little taste."

So Ivan surrendered his tobacco, allowing that cruel siren a quick flavor of that substance. It was returned after those plump lips released dirtied breath.

"It's not that I don't like it here. Truly; it's not so terrible. But I've been living the same life such a long time, it's impossible not to have this gaping hole in my heart. I do the same things so many beautiful years with the same man and so suddenly, it's gone. A puff of smoke and I find myself in your garden without Roderich at my side. It's difficult to like something when so much has changed and so much is gone… I've never lived a perfect life. Loyalty and endurance brought me scars. Some Roderich and I even inflicted upon each other." Those brows furrowed. "As I said, it's truly hard to enjoy anything when so much is ripped from your fingers. It's not your fault; it's not ours. But that doesn't quell this ache…There are kind people here. And it helps to have a friend and those who are willing to listen." Through gloved palms, Elizaveta brushed those tresses behind her blushing ear. "There's no one to blame for my feelings of this place. Only fate. But you can't even blame fate, because good and bad happen through it, all for a reason. I've never believe in accidents."

"That's quite the answer to a yes or no question."

A formation birthed in response. "I know. I'm sorry. But I told you that you're not allowed to ask impossible questions…"

"So you don't like it here. But that's not my fault?"

"Essentially. But that's unfair to say. I don't know how I feel about it yet. But you already know that I like you. We're friends." Elizaveta threw playful reprimand to the other's chest. "You're making me feel guilty for missing my old companions. And you _know_ what it's like to say good-bye."

"Yes. I do…I'm sorry."

"That's alright. You didn't mean it." A pause. "So Ivan, do you like it here."

"No. I don't. I don't like the people here. I don't like the snow. I don't like the work. I don't like the hunger. But I like you. I'm happy we're friends. But before you showed up and scorched away all of the snow and yelled at me and actually told me the truth, I was unhappy. I still hate the work and the snow and the hunger. But you've helped with those things. So…I don't blame you for not liking it here. I just wanted to know."

"Why? Were you going to make it better?"

"I was going to try. But the things you've told me I can't fix. I already knew that." Another long drag upon that cigar. "If you were going to complain of being cold or having worn out socks, or wanting more time to yourself…Well. I could mend those things. But only time can fix you."

"Yes…But I'm alright. So thank you. I do feel like I owe you something. You let me out and you listen to me. And when we're not getting along, you let me yell at you and make your ears bleed. And then you forgive me. It's like medicine. Kindness always takes the pain from those memories."

"Well, I'm glad I can help you." That roll was passed to the other, who took a lengthily inhale. "Would you like to go inside soon?"

"I don't know. It's pretty outside. Even though it's cold and still…" Another mouth full of ash.

"Don't suck up the whole thing, Elizaveta."

Mirth. "I'm sorry." The tobacco was passed to its true owner, burning fragments left to the cool snow. I like doing nothing."

"I like doing nothing too. But if we all did nothing, we'd all be unemployed wouldn't we?"

"I suppose so." The Hungarian pushed away the remainder of that unclean breath. "But unemployment has to have an upside too, doesn't it?"

"I think everything does." The faux king took a stand, handing the rest of that smoking column to the woman. "I'll be upstairs if you'd still like to help."

"Thank you."

"Of course. _Thank you._"

Elizaveta was left to her dead garden, frost kissing to each corner and turning once healthy flowers into a phantom wonderland. For quick seconds, her face became inflicted by rouge, that great Russian man clinging to her broken core and giving that battered organ sweat touches of kindly lips. But those mangled emotions were allowed free and that cigar came to its finish, a smoking corpse left within the ice. It was only an idiotic fluke. Wasn't it natural for friends to feel affection towards one another?

And then the empress traveled up those vindictive steps and assisted her counterpart, organizing and assigning future homes to each of those exhausting documents. The spoke, they laughed, and the woman took her leave when the preparation of dinner befell the hour.

Then Ivan was left to his own discretion, thinking of that shimmering Lorelei in all her enchantment.

Every day, she conquered an even larger portion of him.

And he knew that plague would soon bring mortality.


	24. Chapter 24

"Elizaveta, what are you doing here?"

The days had come as the dawn of an execution, and that horrid felon appeared at her guillotine, accepting fate as a pill composed of cyanide.

"It's Thursday. You're off."

"I was."

"_Was._ What do you mean _was?_"

"To be more efficient, Ivan moved my day to Friday so we wouldn't have extra days to ourselves. To be clear, I'm not trying to take him from you. It was his idea. So if you need anyone to yell at, he would be the one."

"_What?_ I asked him to have the same day off! How could it be his idea? He told me himself it was against the rules!"

"As I said, go ask him yourself."

"You're a goddamn liar! Ivan wouldn't do that to me!"

"Well, he did. I don't see why you're so upset. It's in the wrong direction. Ivan is upstairs."

"What has he told you? That he loves you? Why would you allow this?"

"Be quiet!" The woman screamed in Hungarian. "I have had enough of you! I'm not the right person to be yelling at, and I swear; I will kick in your teeth if you shout one more goddamn word at me!" And then there was only exasperated breath.

"What did you say to me?"

The other did not give reply, only went back to her chores.

And the daunted child ran to her heart's captor. Only to bang down the door. "Ivan, I need to speak with you!" A fist pounded upon that surface and finally, the frame was left ajar, bending to the tyrant's will as reeds within the wind.

"What is it, Natasha?" The man stood behind that threshold as though utilizing that grand plank as an impregnable shield.

"Is it true-what that _woman_ is saying? That it was your idea to switch her free day to Friday?"

There was a deepened release of frustrated air. "Come in, Natasha. And sit down."

The foolish girl listened to her darling's instruction, taking each word to heart as though they held that nectar of truth she so desired. "Well, is it true?"

"Yes. It's true, Natasha."

"How could you do this to me? Do you love her, Ivan?"

"No…Of course not. It's not even about how much I like her. It was only for convenience. If we both have the same day together, then I don't have to use time going out and neither does she. We still have our own days, and I'm not going to take that free time from her, or you, or anyone else who wants to go outside."

"But why? Can't you just adjust your own schedule so that doesn't happen? What about me, Ivan? I love you. Why would you allow Elizaveta what I had asked you for weeks ago?"

"Because, Natasha. Elizaveta asks to go outside more than you do. If you were requesting the same amount, it would be you with the same day."

"But I know that you're busy! And I respect that! What does that little whore have that I don't? I'm kind to you; I love you! I would do anything for you and you elect to spend your time with that filthy harlot!"

"You shut your mouth, Natasha! Elizaveta is _not_ a harlot! She's not a whore, and I'm sick of hearing it! I told you the reasons! Why don't you grow up and get over it? Instead you come into my office, screaming and hollering! If you understand that I'm occupied, then respect me by getting the hell out of this room!"

And then, the atmosphere grew still, the only thing shaking within that calmed world being the crackling of the harsh and warm fire.

Immediately, the naïve child began to cry, as though the man had trampled upon her heart with boots built of steel.

"Don't you love me?"

"Of course I do." That lie brought horrid sickness to Ivan's churning stomach. "I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. I didn't mean to hurt you, Natasha."

"Do you still want me to leave?" Shivering palms removed those droplets.

"No."

More crystalline emotion met those saddened blades. "Can we spend time together? I just want to be with you."

"When?"

"Whenever is convenient for you…Perhaps tomorrow."

"I can't tomorrow."

"Why? Did Elizaveta ask for your time?"

"Yes. She did. And I told her I would take her out."

Natasha simply wore a mask molded in pain. "Did she really ask you or did you ask her?"

"She asked, Natasha."

"Do you want to be out with her?"

"Well…"

That was answer enough.

"How do you feel for her, Ivan?"

The chamber grew still as a horrid winter.

"We're friends. I don't love her. I don't hate her either. You don't need to worry. I love you…"

"Do you mean that?"

"_Yes._ Of course."

Ivan had a bad taste upon his tongue, as though he was willingly ingesting sewer water. Limbs had been bound by his very own palms and the rope cut as a saw.

And despite the horrid blindness, Natasha could make out those tunicates, the blood leaking from the man's sour flesh. But that essence was cleaned from her sensitive finger, as though it was never there.

Then she rose, embracing her lover as though his touch could heal all of those gaping lacerations.

"I'm sorry I was so upset. You know I couldn't live if you weren't mine."

"I know…It's alright." Another dosage of writhing.

"Maybe we can spend time together on Wednesday."

"I'll be sure to have that day free…"

"Thank you." There was a certain quiet. "Can I have the rest of today? I'll still clean if you like…But I don't want to cook. That woman makes me furious. You know she does."

"Natasha, you need to work out your problems. You can't just run from them."

A pause. "She yelled at me in Hungarian today. I suppose I truly upset her." Those dainty numerals fingered the Russian man's buttons.

"I need to get back to work."

"Alright. Have a nice day, Vanya." The great chest was given a pair of lips and the angered siren left that grand thrown room.

Ivan's face fell into his hands and that entire house rotated back to their chores, those malevolent tasks that devoured so much precious time.


	25. Chapter 25

Again, the woman was clothed within fine attire, silk embellishing her lovely flesh and hair bound in lavish barrettes. Cheeks had been saturated in rouge and lids were kissed in light shadow. As usual, the muse was contained within the warm arms of beauty, attraction lacing her as blooms within a wondrous tree.

They were going into that city beneath the veil of evening, that once brightened orb converting to a burnt and fiery hue, leaving clouds to their strawberry stains and the pigmentation of ember.

And the maiden went to the lord, who sat within that throne room as he always had. However, work was not made beneath those bulk hands. Instead, the man was reading a novel printed so many years ago.

A soft rack came against that threshold, and Elizaveta drifted into that grand chamber.

Ivan drank her as sweetened spring water inside a silver chalice.

"Goodness, don't you ever leave here? I'm beginning to think you enjoy it; being locked in this place."

"Well…It's not a bad environment." There was a quick curve of those handsome lips. "You look nice, Elizaveta."

"Thank you." The doll sat within that buttery chair, and thought seemed to enter her mind as though fresh medicine had been injected through delicate pours. "I haven't seen your room."

"Why would you need to?" The page met a ruthless fold. "It's a boring place."

"Because you've seen my room. And it's boring."

"I don't think so…" The faux ruler held his mild amusement. "If you like, I can get you some flowers."

"Where would you find flowers? It's winter."

"Don't you know? They're buried under all that ice. But they're still there.

"Well, if you can find them beneath all that ice, then I'll have them."

They regarded one another, those hued stones teeming in their gentle friendship.

"What would you like to do, Elizaveta?"

"I was hoping you would take me to the movies. Or maybe we could do something else...I wouldn't take you to browse shops. It's too cold to be outside too long anyway."

"Yes…It is too cold. But the movies sound nice." The novel was closed and the reader came to his feet.

"…How was Natasha yesterday?"

"Horrible, as usual." Ivan came nearer to the gaping door, taking his coat from the holder centered so near to it. "I've come to the conclusion that you're the only one who's allowed to complain at me. Anyone else…It doesn't seem right." Lengthily appendages slipped through those wide sleeves. "I made her cry."

"I saw that…Her face was swollen when she returned."

"Did she say anything more to you?"

"No, Natasha was quiet. And then we finished our job."

"Hmm…She's irritating. Let's not speak of her any longer."

"I'm sorry for brining her up. I was just curious…Would you like to go now?"

"Sure. I'd like to get out." Another limb covered by thickened hide. "Are you going to get your coat, Elizaveta?"

"Yes, I am…" Those demure hands straightened out that blue cloth, as though the gown fell too loosely upon the one it was created for. That lovely woman had lost weight, although it could hardly be considered something negative; Elizaveta was always stunning, even more so with such a delicate anatomy.

Counts arrived when sudden desire struck as a potent blade to hapless flesh, and the man bled to death, wishing so desperately to remove that gorgeous azure cover and claim that heart wrenching queen who always appeared so very strong, yet so honeyed within her acquired pastels. His great palms would show her kindness, holding each of those supple features as though they were glass welded a thousand years ago.

Ivan even wished to stroke though that shimmering cascade of chestnut tresses, treating every last follicle as though it was an article from the hands of God himself.

His heart lurched when she turned away to claim that typical and clean fur coat.

So the man followed his fairy, a crux lost within those poignant emeralds kept beneath such tailored brows.

Then they submitted themselves to frost, those bitter flakes illuminated by the amber lights of coming darkness.

"This place is so lovely at night…It's almost heart breaking."

"It is…I think the night is even prettier than the day. It's too bad the sunset won't last much longer than a few minutes."

There was only an affirmative nod.

"Well, we should go. Standing still in snow isn't necessarily wise."

"Of course. You lead the way, Ivan."

They began to progress toward the alluring promise of warmth and entertainment, and temptation was avoided to take the woman's shoulder blades with a protective arm.

"What's your favorite time of day?" The Lorelei fixed her inquiry.

"I like the late afternoon. And nighttime. It's all very calm. How about you?"

"The same. But only because the sky is so pretty. And it is calm…There's something soothing about it. Night has qualities the morning and afternoon will never have…" Elizaveta pushed a lock of her hair behind that reddened ear.

"You're right. The morning is too sharp. Although, it's been dull for so long…"

"Hmm."

The air grew clam and snow gave sweet touch to the pair's garments. Elizaveta once again glanced to those daunting clouds, challenging them with a serious stare, trying to dissipate those forms as though her attention was potent as acid.

And the Ivan collided with her gently.

Then she regarded him.

And again, that man allowed his figure to knock into hers.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." An odd smile and an action repeated.

So Elizaveta pushed back. "Why are you bumping into me? You can walk in a straight line."

"I know." A collision and a motion returned.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Because you looked too serious."

Push.

Shove.

"Stop that!" The woman was laughing. "You're so strange."

"I'm not strange."

Push.

Shove.

"Are you sure? Maybe you are. It's possible you just don't know."

Push.

Shove.

"Well, maybe you're strange Elizaveta. If that you're logic."

"No. I know I'm strange."

"Oh I see."

They came nearer to one another, and The Russian man caught his beauty within those powerful arms, feet still progressing and anatomies twined.

"Let's not fight anymore."

"We were fighting?"

"Maybe." Those massive palms sunk into the thick fur lining that delicate gem. "But it doesn't really matter, since we're close to the theater anyway."

"Good. Do you know what's playing?" It struck the Hungarian odd that such embraces were allowed. But rarely did she find comfort within the warmth of another. Her darling had gone, and contact became something of a precious delicacy. So she permitted her companion to lie his limbs around her, the muse engulfed within the man who so admired simplistic movement.

And Ivan tried to keep his core from melting within that grand chest.

Then they came to the cinema, souls fell to their solitude, and after selecting one of those films written in loud crimson print, tickets were purchases and the two drifted into that edifice which had grown so full.

Seats were claimed, and gazes were connected.

"Thank you for taking me out again, Ivan. And thank you for buying my ticket."

"Of course. I'm glad I have someone to keep me company. I needed to leave that house anyway."

"It's nice to be out; even though it's so cold…I love the movies."

"I do too. But I don't get to go often."

"Neither do I."

They shared mirrored grins.

The screen flicked on and either pair of pigmented gems came to that moving picture.

Throughout that shifting story, the Russian glanced to his false queen and took in those lashes that came upon her lids as gorgeous lace, her plump and cherry hued lips, that magnificent collection of brilliant and shimmering coils set about her dainty shoulders. It was the one moment that her entire visage was his without sudden incrimination. Ivan could observe that sweet woman as though he was glancing through a hole made within a wall. There was accusation, no burning truth, none of that risk mended into his pained heart in all its shattered glass.

The king was looking upon a porcelain doll upon a high shelf, something not even he could lay strong blades upon.

So he admired her from afar, reaching and simply dreaming that nymph might one day belong to him.

And when that film had ended, either began their descent towards home, drunken upon a kind o happy relief.

"How did you enjoy the film, Ivan?"

"It was alright. Not something I would pay to see again, but it wasn't bad."

"Really? I thought it was sweet that the man and woman fell in love at the end. But it did seem like a lot of movies I've seen before. At least a few…There were funny parts, though."

A nod. "Elizaveta…May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Is it difficult to do all of that translating?"

A bit of shock came to the blood, at such a transition, lightning to the veins. "Well, sometimes. I don't know every single word I hear, but I think listening to Russian so often and actually speaking it helps immensely. It becomes more natural to me every time I have a conversation. And it was the same in Austria. Now German feels more like a first language than a second. However, it would be difficult to switch back, especially after being here so many weeks." A few seconds thrown into the great void of important consideration. "My mind gets especially tired at the end of the day, especially when I talk frequently."

"So does speaking with me make you tired?"

To that, there was mirth.

"Well, not intentionally. Russian makes me tires. How about that?"

"I suppose I'll just have to accept it."

Another edition of happiness, and the woman pushed that large man with a playful shoulder. "I already told you that I like speaking with you. It's not my fault you don't know Hungarian."

"Well, you're not teaching me either." The fell into the same sort of childish competition they had before hand. "So by not doing anything, it's just as much of your fault."

"I wasn't aware you wanted to learn."

Ivan simply laughed, catching his counterpart within a nearly endearing head lock.

"Well, maybe I do."

"Hey! Let go of me!" There was still that element of bliss. "That's not even fair! Look how small I am compared to you!"

"Who said anything about 'fair'?"

And they laughed, and the smiled and they reached that door, the owner of that grand institution holding the threshold ajar for his demure winter rose.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing."

That mighty barrier closed, the pair once again made to envelope the other in unfettered attention.

"Thank you for coming to the movies with me, Elizaveta."

"Of course. I had fun." Those precious and fresh petals curled into an attractive mold. "I think I'm going to bed now. It's late and I know I'll have quite a bit to do in the morning."

The man exhibited his amusement, and without a single and glittering thought, pressed his lips to the Hungarian's once impregnable cheek. He was going to tell her 'good night', but having realized the felony he had just committed, Ivan simply pulled form that flushing woman and paid heed only to the blood now infecting his own luminescent visage.

"I'm sorry…I just wanted to wish you goodnight. I didn't think-"

The emerald eyed gem could only stare, dumbfounded, a dainty palm pressing to that infected flesh, as though she was putting pressure against an aching wound.

"It's alright, Ivan." A solemn tick composed in that uncomfortable heat. "I'm going to bed. I hope you sleep well. Good night."

"Good Night."

Those screaming chambers burst into near flames.

And the man stood there, stone within his own foolish actions, longing for another chance and praying that woman would forget, simply regarding that stupid lapse of potent judgment as though it had never occurred.

Ivan remained; face burning and skin dyed an easy crimson.

Finally, he mustered enough sense to drag his weighty form up those tumbling steps.


	26. Chapter 26

"Natasha, please…Tell me why you're so tense." That kind man allowed his lips to press softly against the woman's neck. Arms were wrapped around her torso and either body near to one another, a buttery proximity.

"Ivan was cruel to me…"

"How was he cruel to you? Did he hurt you?"

"No. Not physically. I asked him if I could have Friday off, so I could go out with him. We're friends…But after he told me it wasn't allowed he gave Friday to Elizaveta. And then he said it was convenience."

"He did that?" Toris drew nearer to his darling. "It's unlike him to break rules. Do you think Ivan loves her?"

Natasha shuddered at the very proposition if such horrid treason, even though the consideration had been livid within her mind enough to torment her. It raided her delicate sanity and shook her as a vindictive wind, breaking those frail bones and branding her in lacerations.

She hated the fact it was so plausible.

"I hope not."

"Why do you say that?" Those calloused blades adhered slightly to the foolish girl's collarbone." I think it would be nice if Ivan had someone to love. It would put him in a better mood. Maybe he'll actually allow me to spend more time with you."

"I hate it when he's in love. He's always so stupid."

"Has he even been in love before? I've never seen him be anything but upset."

"I'm sure he has. Everyone falls in love at one point or another."

"Do you remember with who?"

"No. But he's been in love before. I can tell. I'm close to him."

Toris lidded his exhausted emerald orbs. "I'm sorry you're upset. It's unfair." Another honeyed touch. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course you can."

"Why do you even like him? He's so cruel. And then when he does something like this to you…Why would you want to be his friend?"

"He's usually kind. At least to me."

"But that's not _kind._ I don't even know if he cares about you…" A tinge of affection upon the back of her neck. "You've been upset lately and it's all due to his actions. What kind of friend only makes you angry and calls it convenient? If he was truly was your friend, don't you think he'd treat you better?"

"I don't know, Toris. Maybe he's just lying to me…"

And then those demure hands befell the fool's twisting visage, muffling imminent sobs and catching tears upon those still knuckles.

"Oh, Natasha. Please don't cry." The lover rose and took the flowing sentiment from his counterpart's wells. "It's nothing to be this upset over. It's obvious that Ivan isn't a good person by any means. You shouldn't let yourself get so hurt…" A warmed palm collapsed upon the young woman's saturated cheek. "Sit up. I'll hold you."

Natasha listened, rising from those marred and tangled sheets, immediately adopted into the man's adoring arms. Their nude figures came together and twined, the desperate and shattering doll admitting her heart to the other's chest.

"I'm sorry, Natasha. Maybe you can talk to him about it…Or maybe you can give your kindness to someone else. I always figured Ivan was a waste of time."

There was not any response, only more hollers with mangled secrets Toris was not aware of. There were boulders within delicate garden, but those earthen sights had been bound in tight cloth, and Toris refused to take them, even when those massive stones tripped him as malcontent wire.

"I'm sorry, Toris." And for the very first time, Natasha sunk within her wretched guilt. Realization struck her as a bolt from the weary sky, and that core fell into her churning innards.

Ivan loved Elizaveta.

Perhaps he had not realized it yet. Perhaps he still harbored some affection for Natasha, but he loved that Hungarian more. That's why he spent so much time at her side. That's why he changed her day, even though it was against the very rules he had created. That's why he defended her. That's why he allowed her so much and the others so little.

And there was Natasha, who lied to her Toris of every last one of her emotions and yet, ran to him when fate threw sewage against her enraged hide.

Elizaveta had taken Ivan form her. It was unintentional. But she had. That faux king was coveting a gem, and Natasha was not the one found beneath those boards. She was a stone compared to diamond, and no matter what was done, that fact might very well remain, a phantom always meant to haunt her.

There was nothing that could be done.

So she sobbed, reality breaking those fragile limbs as though they were composed of thin glass.

And she lied within her shallow grave, having lost her entire soul in a matter of ephemeral seconds.

Then Toris held her, attempting to pick up those fragmented sections, biting as broken glass.

"I love you, Natasha."

"I love you too, Toris." The sobbing child took her admirer into an even deeper embrace, managing to connect their mouths. Hands held either side of that devoted soul's frame, and love was given that was never truly present. But Toris deserved that affection and that deep care, a rhinestone presented as the ruby.

And he accepted it, keeping his porcelain goddess at a honeyed proximity, afraid he would lose her if that anatomy was allowed free.

"I love you, Toris…You're kind."

"I love you too, Natasha…"

Either remained until that damaged creature bandaged her leaking wounds, however poorly adhered that gauze may have been.


	27. Chapter 27

Days had expired within conflicted void and consideration had dosed that sore spot upon Elizaveta's cheek. And those odd feelings could not be articulated, as though they were puzzle pieces dressed in heavy and dried mud. Nothing could fit.

And a new tension shrouded those servants as though they had all witnessed that strange and sweet moment between the queen and her lover. It almost seemed as though Elizaveta's internal sentiment leaked throughout those corridors and contaminated those chambers. Emotion could be smelled, as a poignant perfume that required all corners f that grand asylum.

It was so potent, even Natasha was brought to its merciful grasp.

And they stood within that kitchen, cooking breakfast, the foolish and broken child standing before a pot of boiling water, her visage saturated in ache.

Elizaveta glanced to her, not allowing lips to shift, nor omitting words from her throat. She only took up the rice, along with a few fragments of lingering nutrition.

"How could you, Elizaveta?"

"_Please_, Natasha…"

"No. he loves you." Tears were removed. "Maybe you don't love him. But he loves you. You've replaced me."

There was nothing to be said.

"Why would you grow so near to him? You know how he feels for you…You already have a man who loves you so much. I know Roderich adores you. So why steal the one _I_ had? Perhaps Ivan doesn't love me as he should. Maybe he doesn't love me at…" Eyes were cleared of their gathering sorrow. "But I did have something. And I was happy, having any part of him at all. And then you came. You came with your beautiful dresses and your gorgeous hair and all your experience. You knew how to speak to him and make him satisfied." More dejection. "You didn't need him, Elizaveta."

"Natasha, I didn't take him from you."

"Yes you did!" A fist was slammed in savage contempt upon that unscathed counter. "You didn't mean to, but you _did._"

The taken woman could not exhibit thought.

"And I have nothing."

"_Yes you do!_ You have Toris! He adores you and he would never use you and hurt you and ignore you like Ivan did! Stop being so foolish!"

"But I don't love him…" With shivering palms, that forlorn soul was removed from that misery stricken expression. "I've tried to. I want to love him. But I just don't. I can't force myself to feeling something I simply can't."

"Then why do you continue to use him like he's worth nothing? It's not right!"

"I know." Those hazy sapphires clouded with searing pain. "I know it's not." A heavy gasp. "I care about him. Even if I don't love him. He's good to me. And I don't want to hurt him."

"You're going to hurt him regardless of what you do. Sooner or later he's going to find out that you're lying to him and that will hurt far more than simply telling him the truth. If you truly did care, then you wouldn't play these idiotic games. Toris doesn't deserve that."

"It's not that easy." Another edition of horrid breath. "I don't want him to be upset…He's been depressed before. Toris once told me that I gave him something to live for. That being stuck in this horrible place was actually worth something now that he had someone to love. I might as well kill him."

And the child fell subject to all her bitter dejection, a great phantom clinging to her as though she had been the murderer that destroyed lives. Words became moot, utterly broken and useless, wings that had melted within that sun's vindictive beams. Because nothing could mold truth better than the facts printed about her shifting lips and her muddled cries.

Elizaveta watched, her mouth dry as an ancient bone and barren as soil within drought.

Perhaps that stupid girl was not so very far from her own fingers. Natasha had loved. Natasha had lost. Natasha had been hurt. Petit arms were bound within her crux's horrid wire. And her core belonged to one who could not see that ruby bearing upon his palm.

Perhaps he could.

But those pulses were well ignored.

And the young woman, who had sacrificed so much for desire's prolonged ache, was left with a bleeding chest and wells performing as broken dams.

There was a note of sympathy for the profound fool.

"I'm sorry, Natasha."

And the shattered porcelain doll fell into a sullen embrace from her deprave rival.


	28. Chapter 28

She fell sleep with the letter inside her longing hands, manila against her collar bone at the side of her core. Her eyes were pressed shut, lashes compacted as elegant and complex lace, made to such a silken black.

And within those dreams he haunted her. That kiss was something of a seed, causing virus inside her fragile mind, broken from something once so strong.

She was wrapped within those enormous arms, engulfed in warmth that was not her own, body void of cloth and contained within pliable and colorless flesh. Elizaveta shined as a golden idol, caught within the hand of her guardian and dire lover, and they glanced into one another's eyes, emeralds welding with those azure rhinestones polished to such a glistening pulchritude.

"Ivan, it's cold…"

The woman glanced to her field of relentless frost, seeing nothing but frigid snowfall and plump ground dominated by cruel pearl. She lidded her sight; she felt her holder's heavy chest slowly rising and falling.

"Don't go to sleep, Elizaveta."

"I'm sorry. I was only resting my eyes."

The nymph's form was secured tighter, lips coming to her brow as her visage tucked against that neck, set to the temperature of flames.

"Ivan, I love you." A press to that crease. "Will we die? It's so cold…"

"No. Not as long as we stay together. The snow will melt…" One of his powerful hands searched through those cascading tresses, rough pads settling upon the maiden's blushing ear. "I love you. You're beautiful, Elizaveta…."

And the woman settled in even more so, allowing a demure hand to reside upon the other's side of that uninhabited collar. "Your skin is so soft…And your eyes are so lovely. I love to be near to you. Nothing can hurt me, when we're like this."

There was a moment of stillness, and then the crunching of footsteps could be heard within the snow. There was Roderich. And there was Natasha, either standing together draped inside heavy furs with solemn tears dripping from broken dams. Their orbs had gone dull and barren, a film covering them as those crystals had been once liberated doves who met their blistered ends in blood and bullets. They were shells, holding chocolates and pearls, and their flesh turned to hallow stone, shattering about that vast and desolate wasteland.

But the pair could not see them, far too washed within the flesh of that other, kissing, touching, grasping, moaning. Greedy.

And those fallen stone sculptures revealed a legion of crimson roses beneath that terrible sheet of snow, but the couple was far too blind to see.

Then it ended. And the Garden of Eden fell.

Elizaveta awoke, panting, the letter within her hand crinkled and well bruised.

She cried.

Her visage collapsed into her palms, those fingers attempting to scratch out her foul eyes. The poor soul howled, not wishing to hold such fetid thought within her mind. Did she love him? It was an unavoidable truth; those Russian features were handsome. Ivan was an attractive man. But did that impregnable heart hold weakened barriers? Elizaveta felt helpless, when her limbs and crux were once composed of composite diamond.

It placed ache within her blood that the warmed chambers of her center could not take way. Because they longed for that faux king, all while tearing away the walls of her fragmented subconscious.

And Natasha was right.

Ivan loved her.

It was beyond evident, written throughout those crying cerulean droplets as though it had been scribed within clear print upon crisp parchment. A love note tacked to the woman's ruby visage.

And it could not evaded, not those sentiments, not that gorgeous and stupid moment, not those brewing emotions boiling within the woman's stomach and over flowing, as though that love had grown far too scalding.

It had taken those sights long enough to notice.

Acknowledgement came to those delicate hands as pointed glass.

Then there was Roderich.

How could her love of so many magnanimous years be so ephemeral? Fading as a brightened star behind a dense purple cloud. The woman was blind, as she could not touch the sky, having been grounded within worn soil.

So in her foolishness, the doll screamed of her ebbing misery, the article from her forgotten lover soaking within her malcontent.

Elizaveta branded herself a traitor, having such a full core for the man who held her captive.

And she asked to the Gods, "What have I done?"

Then the dead anatomy rose and waded as a failing machine to that chamber so focused around bathing, attempting to wash the tattooed filth from her rotting hide.

That brief baptism was contaminated with an uneasy miasma.


	29. Chapter 29

'I wish I didn't love him.'

Another prayer converted in secrecy.

And the beautiful woman was interrupted in her mental scrambling and constant interrogation. Distraction came within a sweetened knock upon the door, another outing arranged and another invasion by that charming Russian.

"Come in!"

The door opened and Elizaveta was greeted by the admirer clothed in fine attire, a crisp white blouse and pressed black trousers. His coat was held by that powerful arm.

"Hello, Ivan. How are you?"

"I'm well." While the woman was connected with her desk, the man fell against that welcoming bed. "I think I prefer going out in the evening more…It's not something I'm normally able to do."

"I do as well…" Earrings were given to those dainty lobes, and cheeks were pinched with worn figures. "I'm ready if you are."

"I am. But I need to ask you something."

What is it?"

"Did my kissing your cheek…Did it bother you?" The atmosphere was crippled and fell into a solemn grave.

"Well…It surprised me. But it didn't so much as bother me. Why? Have you been tearing yourself up for it?"

"Yes. Now that I have you as my friend, I don't want to upset you. I didn't really think."

"Don't friends kiss one another on the cheek all the time? I thought that was normal."

"It is. But I still felt like I wasn't allowed to. I just need to make sure that you aren't angry with me."

"I think you're more bothered by this than I am. To be honest, I had forgotten about it…It was nothing, really. I've done similar things to people I've been close to."

"Well, if it's nothing, then would you mine kissing my cheek?"

The Hungarian knitted her shapely brows. "You're silly. Why would I do that?"

"To make me believe it was actually acceptable. If friends can kiss each other on the cheek, then you should be able to kiss me…If you don't feel comfortable with it, then I'll know it truly bothered you." Gazes danced. "It seems like we need to even things out."

"Is this a test, Mr. Braginski?"

"Isn't everything a test? There's not a wrong answer. I'm just wondering what kind of person you are, Elizaveta."

"I feel like it's a trick."

"It's not." That odd and convincing smile. "I don't need to trick you."

"Fine. I suppose it wouldn't be such a problem to kiss you, somewhere innocent." So the siren rose from her position and walked to her captor, who still reined over that tilting mattress and capitulated either of those snow-hued ears with careful palms. A press of strange affection arrived against the tip of that rounded Russian nose.

The figures held their position a moment, Ivan's once colorless cheeks inhabited by slight rouge. It had been such a cruel duration since Elizaveta had been allowed closeness, and something sinister within her basic essence enjoyed giving warmth to another.

And finally, they tore from one another.

"You know, Elizaveta. That wasn't my cheek."

"I suppose you'll have to get over it, then. Besides, I like your nose. Do you feel better?"

"Yes. But it would have been even more settling to kiss my cheek. I suppose this will have to do."

"Good." A grin. "Where are we going, Ivan?"

"I figured we could sit in the park and talk. It's lovely at night." Another moment in passing. "But if you'd like to something else, we can."

"Well, if we're going to talk, why not stay closer? We could just remain here, couldn't we?"

"I thought the whole idea was to be outside instead of cooped up here."

"Oh yes…Of course."

"How silly of you, Elizaveta. It's almost like you thought out time together was actually meant to be around each other."

"Oh, stop." The woman sat at the side of her companion, quickly brushing past his snout as though something was removed. "I'm taking back my kiss. You've lost your privileges."

Ivan haphazardly adorned Elizaveta's visage with a honeyed tinge. "Then give me another one."

"What? No! You can't have another one. _You've lost your privileges._"

An obnoxious smooch.

"Will you stop that?"

"Just give me my old kiss back. That's all I want."

"No! What sort of message will that send? I can't temporarily confiscate something. You'll just go back to being a smart-ass."

"I'll always be a smart-ass. Punishing me won't cure that." Peck.

"Stop…" That garden flourished as though winter had finally melded to spring and the nymph exhibited all her imprisoned pigmentation. "I'll give it back. But only if you promise to be good."

"I can be good, Elizaveta."

"Good." Mild adoration was granted to that canvas, a single brush stroke to empty parchment. "How do you even get me to play these stupid games?"

"I don't know. Would you like to go?"

"Yes. I would."

So they went and they traveled to that park, the air nearly quiet and the scene barren of life, all accept for the band playing sweetened notes within the distance.

Frost was taken from the seat, and the pair took occupancy against it, warmth wrapped around them tightly as their hide. Breath clouded before their lips and faded as a worn phantom staying for ephemeral ticks.

They glanced to those dimmed streetlights and they allowed that smooth sound within their hackneyed ears.

"I had a dream about you, Ivan."

"Really? I had a dream about you as well."

"You did? What was you dream about?"

"It was odd…We were in my office and you were telling me that you found flowers outside in the snow, on the trees and in the bushes. I didn't believe you, but you insisted, and then we went down stairs and into the garden. You were right. There were flowers everywhere. Winter was over and spring had finally come. Then I looked to you and your hair was drenched in roses."

"You dreamt something like that?"

"Oddly enough, I often dream of flowers. For a while I thought there was something wrong with me. But I'm exhausted of the snow. I miss the color. But you already knew that." A pause. "What was your dream about?"

"Well…Mine was far simpler. We were just sitting outside, speaking. But it was still winter." Temporary silence. "But there were flowers beneath the snow…It was a strange dream."

And all so suddenly, the women wondered what exactly was the matter with her; why that traumatic incident was brought to the man's attentive ears. Perhaps bringing the splinter from the festering laceration would finally allow her to heal, as though denial was far more potent than the cure in itself.

There was a certain misery within her wells, as saddened candles with flames of the wrong hue. Blue smoke to reddened wick.

And the hawk spotted the rat.

"What's wrong Elizaveta?"

"I haven't thought of Roderich in a long while. He barely makes his appearance anymore, even within my head. My heart would break if he forgot me. But I shouldn't be remembered if I can lose him so easily, and after all the things he's done for me…"

"Elizaveta, don't say that about yourself. It's not a good thing to think of someone every minute of the day. You won't forget him. You're simply healing. The pain is finally dissipating and the acceptance is coming. It doesn't mean you don't miss him. It doesn't mean that you don't love him. It doesn't mean you're a terrible person. Old wounds are shutting. It won't hurt forever…And you shouldn't feel guilty because you're happier. It's a good thing to be happy."

So the excommunicated queen considered the words of the preacher.

"You're right… I thought I wasn't allowed to feel happiness after such a heavy loss. But Roderich wouldn't want me to be in pain so long. I would hate to see him in the same state…And I do."

"So, you feel better?"

"A bit."

"Good. Then I'm happy."

"I'm happy that you're happy."

Exchanged simpers so engulfed within their sudden wellness.

"If it's any conciliation, you look lovely."

"Why would you tell me something like that?" The accusation was set at play. "Especially when you've already given me consolation."

"What's the matter with a pretty red cherry on top of the dollop? I'm allowed to be kind to you, aren't I?"

"Of course. But too many sweets are just as deadly as none."

"Then I suppose I'll spoil you."

"Spoil me?" Those plump mounds curved into a sweetened crescent. "Well, that makes me special, doesn't it? But there's nothing wrong with that. I'll let you spoil me."

"I'd like to. I don't think I've gotten to spoil anyone yet."

And then here was silence.

"Elizaveta, would you like to dance?"

"Dance? To the music in the background?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to dance?"

"Why? I don't look like I can dance? I can dance."

The Hungarian woman laughed. "I never said that you couldn't dance. It just strikes me as odd that you'd like to. I thought most men hated it."

"Well, I don't hate it." The dictator came to his whole stature, offering an outstretched palm to his darling lady. "I haven't done enough to decide my feelings toward it."

"I see." The fish took the bait, and that couple came together, hands lying upon shoulders and hips, bodies yoking within the frigid air so dense with pretty flakes.

And then they moved.

And then the world became still.

The pads of Elizaveta's fingers buried themselves within that great thicket of fur, and two hearts came to a bonding, as though emotional wire had been knotted together, blue and red combining to create majestic purple strands. There was no begging, nor was there an end. Just fluid sentiment made in perfect translation between two longing souls.

And it became obvious to either of them.

Elizaveta experienced a shooting pain throughout that core, in her affection and her misfortune.

Finally, a blossom had budded upon that decrepit and barren cherry tree, and rain fell from a sky once affected by a bitter drought.

But the plant did not want that beauty, brilliant magenta flowers plucked so painfully from those laves. There was horrid guilt for their presence, yet such obvious existence could not be thrown to dust. One cannot deny truth when it is evident before plain sight. Those who do are liars.

It was both agony and pleasure.

And after only a few minutes of pretty steps, the muse had to pull from her subject.

Their gazes fought.

"Elizaveta…"

"No please…I know how you feel for me, Ivan. I can recognize the look in your eyes. That expression on your face. Why?"

A release of air. "Why not? Why can't I love someone?"

"_I'm taken!_"

"So that cancels everything I feel?"

There was a long stop dense in aggressive static.

"_Do you love me?_"

Nothing.

That was all the response that shaken doll required.

"I'm going to leave…I'm sorry. I'll see you at home, Mr. Braginski."

The man was left to his uprooted rose bush.


	30. Chapter 30

'I wish I didn't love him. I wish my heart wasn't so foolish. I wish he hated me. I wish Roderich was here. I wish my life was returned to the way it was. I wish I didn't feel this way.'

Then the woman sobbed, confined to her bed, despite the fact she was required to rise and alleviate those screaming duties. But she had become deaf. Nothing could be heard but her own sinking anguish, limbs bound in angered and morbid guilt.

Elizaveta absolutely abhorred the warmth generating from her idiotic core, that rancid sentiment something far overly sweet. The image of her darling Roderich haunted her as vindictive demon, and no matter how the hollers tore from her furious mouth, he would not leave. The Austrian turned to a fatal virus, and the woman, so close to her humane death, laid within her marred sheets, watching the reaper with her wells dampened and her arms spread wide.

It seemed ridiculous that such a loyal warrior could come to another army all so suddenly. Some entity told her that those growing and terrible seeds had been developing far longer than was supposed. And now those gorgeous trees flourishing within their pink blossoms could finally be recognized.

One cannot see the innards of a melon until it is split entirely in half.

And Elizaveta looked upon those tiny increments of potent like and read them as though they were truth spelled in tea leaves.

The muse hated the poetry made in her image.

So the lost duchess cried, although none would hear her.

Although, on indeed did.

The door clicked and the jewel thief came to the scene of the crime.

"Elizaveta…"

"Get out."

But the felon only came further into that burning light.

"Can I please just speak to you?"

"Get out." Tone had not broken.

"Please…"

"I said get out!" At that sudden and barbed outburst, the fountain shattered and Elizaveta was buried within the after math, nearly smothering herself with cloth and feathers.

But still, the statue did not walk.

Instead, a position was taken at the empress' mattress, lying at her flank and engulfing that figure within magnanimous heat.

"I'm sorry, Elizaveta. I didn't mean to hurt you, I just wanted to apologize. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you really want."

"No…"

Hands adhered to Ivan's sleeves and the dying thing accepted that blanket before she froze. But the weeping did not wither; it remained as stones against that great and stumbling mountain.

"Do you hate me?" Palms soaked those glittering tresses.

"No…" A choke and a swallow. "I don't hate you…"

The Russian man's brow grew closer to his doll's, and suddenly, a kind of twisted euphoria engulfed him, having wanted for so long to be near to that angelic figure, even though her state was something far battered.

And after long minutes of calming strokes and soft breath, the mangled cries finally approached their end.

"…I love you."

"I know." A swallow. "I love you too."

"You do?"

"Yes…I do." Another drastic inhale. "That's why I feel so horrible. I was already in love. I'm not supposed to feel this way towards you. I hate it; how this is. Roderich would be disappointed in me…"

"Elizaveta, he's not here. I don't know how long you'll stay. But I can tell you, it will likely be years. It's always years…You can't miss someone forever. So why not let yourself have something pleasant? Why would you want to miss anyone so long? It's terrible. I know it is. I've seen so many people die and so many have been separated from me. But clinging to things that are gone won't help you. All Roderich can be now is a memory, even if you do write to one another. So why deny yourself of happiness? I know I'm not perfect. But I'll be good to you. And I'll love you; I'll try my hardest to make you comfortable."

"Please don't say anymore." Bleeding love.

There was pain because the Hungarian knew he was right. One day, Elizaveta would forget the sorrow for her Austrian, and all he lacerations would heal and leave insensitive scars. Roderich would only return when they were spotted, just as God appears when the cross is regarded upon the wall.

And that would be it. An ephemeral recollection that met death as soon as reincarnation was granted.

And that miscarriage would not even be mourned; Elizaveta would have become so numb to that brief pinch within the chest.

Then there would be Ivan.

Ivan and the entire grave of the muddled past.

But of course, that bitter and daggered truth was hideous. The disabled child that brought discomfort through no fault of its own. And nothing could be done but swallow that bright yellow pill, which held so many side effects despite bare necessity.

And that cracking siren cried as her unintentional prey held her.

"I love you, Elizaveta…" One of the large man's appendages came into that pants pocket and yanked away the container purchased so many weeks previously. "I bought this. But I was too afraid to give it to you." The lovely article was placed within the woman's clenching fingers. "If you like it, it's yours. If not. Well, I suppose I'll do something else with it."

"Don't give me things…" Those eyes welded shut with emotion. "You're not supposed to."

"So you don't want it?" Those words drifted form Ivan's mouth were kind and heavy, something comparable to molasses.

There was not an answer.

"Just think about it. If you decide you don't want this bracelet, then I'll take it back."

"I won't do that to you…I accept your gift." Breath and sorrow. "How could you love someone like me? I'm nothing but a pain."

"Because you're kind. And you're beautiful." A press to that saddened brow. "I just do. I can't explain it."

And finally, those tears dried and the broken queen accepted that sweet affection, as though she had been denied of necessity for dwindling years, as though confection had been offered to her ragged fingers after that battered and changed soul lived the life of a sordid beggar.

The atheist had God's nectar.

"Do you really love me, Elizaveta?"

"Yes. I do love you..."

"Will you tell me why?"

"You're charming. There's something very alluring about you, and for the most part, you're sweet…" They pulled apart, and allowed their gazes to waltz; crystalline upset still leaking minimally from the muse's dampened gems. "And your eyes are so sad…"Thumbs caught those gathering sentiments. "It's as you said. I simply love you. It's difficult to explain why."

Then Ivan allowed his lips to his lover's petals, sampling those mounds as though they were wondrous chocolates he was never allowed to taste. He savored them, because they were a glorious golden prize that had been dangled just before his reach far too long. And finally, the urchin was allowed the mansion.

Their orifices moved passionately in a sugared unison, and hearts fell together and combined as a single organ, keeping that four eyed monster well alive.

A few more tears were secreted from the woman's sight and their tongues tangled, serpents twining and fighting all at once. They pushed against one another, pressing sweetly and arguing bitterly and moving in unfettered and momentarily shameless passion.

And they pulled apart.

"I love you, Elizaveta…" A brief touch of the mouth.

"I love you too." The porcelain figurine was still somewhat shattered, faux flesh housing ugly cracks and painted emerald eyes inhabited by a crippling sort of misery.

Ivan simply relaxed against his dame.

"I'm sorry…" The Hungarian seemed to settle.

"It's alright."

"Ivan?"

"Yes?"

"…Will you show me your room? I'd like to see it."

"Yes. You can. But for now can we stay here?" The man had wanted that moment for excruciating weeks.

"Of course…"

And having expelled all her sorrow, the nymph fell through her forest and landed against a bed of smooth leaves, and immediately became subdued to a land of blossoming dreams.

Elizaveta had been too guilt ridden to sleep the previous night, and she took unconsciousness as though her anatomy had been subjected to horrid burns and morphine was finally given to tolerate the wrenching pain.

Her lover held her, as though that gorgeous creature would shatter had he taken his leave.

And despite the exhaustion and that ashen blame constantly beating upon Elizaveta's back, there was a kind of relief. Because truth had finally come and either were still so near. There not sudden hatred for the false ruler, nor was there request to push him from that lonesome existence. Ivan was allowed to his darling's furtive garden, and was not forced to run when spotted by those vindictive guards.

And he was happy, finally having the magnanimous Elizaveta at such proximity. His hands were able to stroke through that golden-brown cascade and his form was allotted to hold the petit goddess so inhabited at his side.

It was euphoric.

And in that near existence, the weary man dropped to his dreams as well, having been so troubled by the evening's mangled events.

Then Ivan slept, core in serenity and florid with those crimson emotions.

Peace had finally arrived from the sky.


	31. Chapter 31

Elizaveta forced herself to respond to Roderich's letter, those words faux and ugly. But that note needed an answer, and phrases were given to satisfy that old love who had suddenly experienced death. As the conflagration that simply stopped.

The Hungarian had been subjected to a numbing kind of disease. There was love for either man within that rotting heart, but it was strained and pushed from her vision, as the child that cried nearly every moment. She was exhausted of that constant acknowledgment, all of something that was never truly satiated.

Then she came to the king's thrown room, and she presented that offensive article, placing manila upon the polished surface and regarding him with a pleading glance, that parchment seeming to burn a hole within the wood.

"Hello, Elizaveta…" The missive was collected, and placed within a drawer brimming with envelopes, all labeled and ready to be sent. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. I did." Those eyes conveyed an anterior truth.

"I see."

"I didn't get to look at your room yesterday."

"I know. You fell asleep, so I thought I would let you rest. I'll show you later." Ivan's eyes caught the gleaming silver upon her darling's demure wrist. "Do you like your gift?"

"Yes. It's quite lovely. Thank you…" Sight was drowned in the embers of dejection.

The man reached over that polished desk and held Elizaveta's hand, drowning it in comparison to his own. Lips pressed to that delicate flesh and shot instant rouge to that oval frame. "Why don't you come closer? I wanted to speak to you about something."

And the numbed thing followed her orders, walking around that busied obstacle and standing before her fresh lover. That appendage was still well capitulated, and the man's looming fingers kissed sensually to Elizaveta's knuckles, her wrist, that article donned for her pleasure.

"Ivan…What did you want to talk to me about?"

Attentions welded and the Russian man sunk away.

"Well…I thought it would be best if you stopped working."

"What? Stop working? How can I?" Brows bent. "I'm not your wife. That kind of special treatment shouldn't be allowed."

"I know, but I don't care." Mounds to knuckles. "I want you to be happy. I couldn't ruin your hands and you always seem so exhausted."

"That doesn't matter. It's unfair."

Another tinge. "You think about it. I'll allow you to do whatever you like. You can work; you can sleep; you can roam around in the garden; you can borrow a few of my books and you can read."

"You're too kind to me…" Uniform touch to the edge of the other's smooth visage, setting against a cheek, affecting barren snow with flourishing tints. Blades slipped along that susceptible ear engulfed in silken and dull follicles.

"You're lovely, Elizaveta."

"Thank you."

That sight was lidded and azure gems were hidden away. "I have to get back to work soon." Ivan leaned into the muse's opened palm. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright. What should I do? I want to work."

"Then go help Katya clean." A palm pressed to the woman's flesh. "Stop whenever you please." Then those numerals were released. "I love you…"

There was still hesitation. "I love you too…" Her voice had receded to ash.

So the duchess so stricken within her sorrow found her counterpart, who she had not spoken to in so long, after changing into those tattered working rags.

Katya regarded her as though she was a former empress dropped to that state of destitution. That expression played nothing but battered loss, porcelain beaten to pulp.

"Hello, Elizaveta."

"Hello, Katya."

"…Are you alright?"

"No. I'm not."

"Well…" The cloth was rung out. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"I didn't follow your advice. And I went and fell in love."

That simplistic truth brought a certain humor to the opposite. "Oh, Elizaveta. Ivan caught you." Those usually calm lines dropped. "How is he treating you, now that you're so close?"

"He's very kind. He gave me this bracelet and then told me I didn't need to work any longer."

"He told you that you no longer need to work?" Katya took in those mangled hands, that worn and blistered skin, then to the one who still held her feminine softness. "There is no such thing as equality. I hate this country."

"Katya…"

"You're so lucky, Elizaveta. If you don't have to work, then why would you? No one wants to be a servant, so why volunteer? Take your free time and run. Run home to Hungary or Austria, but don't stay here."

"Why don't you run Katya? Your home is closer than mine."

It required a moment for he response, and simply, that ruined sleeve was lifted, giving light to the beginning of a grand scar. It almost looked as a brand, but the Hungarian could not label that mutilated tissue.

"When did he do that do you?"

"Years before you arrived…Your presence has changed a lot. That doesn't mean it's ever wise to run. But as I said, he loves you. Ivan is somewhat destructive, but he's not horrible enough to harm something he adores. Besides, he's been far more pleasant lately. If you'd like to escape, now would be an opportune time."

"How long will I be here, Katya?"

"Decades, easily. Perhaps if you're lucky, it will only be ten years. But luck never comes here. Maybe you're not all too fortunate. You're only slightly less miserable than the rest of us. They tore you from your home as well." The floor was cleaned. "How do you feel?"

"Guilty." The exiled queen took up her own rag. "I'm a liar, aren't I? I spent so much time telling everyone that Roderich was the only one for me…" Lashes pressed together in their shame, tears boiling between them. "Now I'm behaving as though he's dead, as though he's been dead the last five years. Like I've forgotten him." A hefty breath. "He would be so upset with me…If he was aware, he'd likely never wish to see my face again. I can't say I would blame him." Stoic tears infested that hurting mask, as though the bearer was attempting to force them back into their respective sockets.

"I don't think you should feel so horrible."

"Why is that?" Withering and earthen orbs pressed to the Ukrainian's visage.

"If Roderich had died, he wouldn't want you to mourn him and be miserable for your entire existence. You might be here for eternity and I can tell you, people who were precious to you now won't be in another ten years. Perhaps not even three. This is your new world, Elizaveta. Unless you can manage to run from it."

"But I won't, will I?"

"No. Probably not." The surface was freed of filth. "You should move on. Not one person can be depressed so many years, no matter who they are. I would accept Ivan…He'll give you whatever you want, all accept your freedom. You'll have to steal that back."

The visage was dried with a healing sleeve. "I know you're right Katya. But I still feel horrible. Roderich was so good to me and discarding him is far worse than stabbing him in the back."

"I know, Elizaveta. But it's natural, just as its natural to be in love…Just be cautious. A kind Ivan is still Ivan."

A solemn nod. "Katya, what was your life like before you arrived here?"

"If you can believe it, almost like yours. I've never been in love; I never had a man. But I attended to business and I negotiated with other countries and signed papers and went to gatherings. They dressed me in pretty silks and furs…Sometimes jewels. I even had hair dressers."

The Hungarian wore an unmistakable dumbfounded expression.

And Katya laughed. "I cut my hair after I arrived here. It always got in the way."

"Oh…"

"I had known Ivan before I came to this place. We were actually friend since childhood, and at some points he was almost like a little brother to me. I learned Russian and he learned Ukrainian, although he's forgotten most of it, and we were happy. But then something occurred. Not only to Ivan, but to all of us. And then everything changed. We all learned Russian, at least, those who didn't already speak it, and lived beneath the same roof. It wasn't so terrible at first. Usually, Ivan tried to be as kind as possible. But he had broken, because the last few years had been absolute hell. However, he was not yet cruel. Then winters came and passed, and he grew. Ivan became bulkier and taller, and then those bright blue eyes faded to something dead. The child within in him had left, and he had become a man. The revolution crippled him and the war…We were all affected but, not to such an extent."

The woman shook her head.

"I can tell you that I wouldn't want his place."

Elizaveta donated every fragment of her attention.

"It first began with scolding, then diatribes, then slaps to the mouth. We all saw where it was going. We were punished for things that seemed completely petty, even for the strictest of dictators. So, many of us tried to run. Before then, we were allowed out. I actually did the grocery shopping and ran errands when Ivan was too busy to leave that stupid office. So one day I tried to go when he sent me out to pick a bolt of fabric for new trousers. I was going to sew them…Then I decided I had enough of being a slave. It was as though I had fallen from an airplane without a parachute. They used to dress me in silks and feed me delicacies from a silver platter. I had soft hands. I had long flowing tresses and I had palms that weren't dominated by blisters. I cried when I had to cut nearly all of my hair away because it had become so tattered…"

The former duchess looked as though she could easily buckle into tears herself, agony from wounds inflicted retuning as though those burning lacerations were fresh, even though gaping sears had converted to mangled scars. That story made her stomach churn, because it was indeed so incredibly unjust.

"So I ran. I took the money for the material and I got as far as I could. But people were sent to look for me, and they brought me back. Then, I faced Ivan."

That jaw shifted in mild discomfort.

"He was standing in the kitchen preparing some tea…But the kettle was screaming and steam was rising from it almost a though the insides were on fire. Ivan didn't look at me, but he asked, 'what did you think you were doing, Katya?' And before I could even answer, I found myself on the floor, doubled over with my stomach burning…Then he held the bottom side of the kettle against my arm after pinning me down. That was when I lost all my strength. I would never run again, or even raise my voice. Every time I see this ugly weld, I realize how trapped I am…"

A few tears rolled along those snow hued apples.

"So if he tells you that you no longer need to work and ruin you pretty hands and cut away all of your gorgeous hair, then don't work. _Don't_ ruin your pretty hands and cut away all of your gorgeous hair. Because maybe then, you won't be like me. With a scorch on your arm and nothing inside your heart. I died that night. So please, Elizaveta. Don't lose yourself if you don't have to."

Those mounds twisted and pursed, their owner murdering coming sorrow.

"Please stand up, Katya."

The gone woman did indeed rise, and immediately, the fresher corpse came and enveloped her within a sunny embrace, so entranced with attempt. As though that Ukrainian mannequin could be rejuvenated if there was enough compassion inside those limbs.

And Katya cried, mangled marks form winters passed all rushing back on a single injection, the addict returning to the fix.

The former empress accepted those cries; certain she may have sampled her very own future.


	32. Chapter 32

The snow receded into that blistered earth, and through that bare emerald came blossoms pigmented in fantastic rouge.

It was as though that frigid white had underwent complete baptism, and the harsh and bitter man was turned to the glorious lover, exhibiting warmth and allotting perpetual rags to that once desolate and broken soil. The clouds drifted; triumphant grass prodding though that melting barrier; winter had lost its throne.

And the Hungarian woman placed a rose within those tresses.

Weeks had come and those sentiments met their searing depths. Elizaveta had glanced through her ancient photo album and stowed it away within the very same day, her heart infected with a solemn pain. It brought agony to her thin hide, even within all those lovely photographs, those blaring gems tore her in four different directions and left her a bloodied cadaver.

So the dead woman buried her memoirs.

And the sour child grew even more soiled, her heart, a mal grown bloom, converted to black ash, all while her broken leaves shook. Words did not shatter her shifting mounds, nor did sight move from her mangled toes. Not even for her darling Ivan. Natasha marked her palms with those unending chores; there were lacerations and there were aches. Her innards churned and her soul buckled. The impassioned lover took the skin of the morning widow, and just as the mistress submerged her recollections within that hard dirt, the new woman engulfed her cure.

Toris could not save her, nor pull that mannequin from her vat of tar.

And the very concubine who had engulfed such ill sentiment kept a fragment of remorse, but not for Natasha, who had been embellished within fair warning. But for that generous Toris, whose flesh was regarded as a hackneyed welcome mat.

There was pity, for the slave could not see the glistening truth that had been left, his fragmented knuckles fighting that mangled fact for what could have very well been haunting years, ephemeral and yet screeching through moments as the words of the ignored God brandished against the city wall.

It was that worker who had gained the demigoddess' ugly kindness, that bleeding soul sitting high against that pedestal marked for pretty loyalty. And she wished to be nearer to the dimming light that was the emerald eyed man, but there was a new sort of class separating their time.

Elizaveta held the Russian man's offer, allowing breath into his enormous figure as her golden hide was embellishing inside silk and pearls. Those statues were protected, and suddenly, the tsar sat within the nymph's demure palm. Either had promised their souls and a kind of servitude arose.

Elizaveta was a concubine to leisure.

And within leisure came the ebbing thoughts.

Calculation and boredom laced in nagging, longing for all things abandoned.

So the bride beneath the thumb of melancholy, the Hungarian gem, took to her room, lavish from the fortunate palm of the foolish king.

She sat upon her bed, nude all accept for those lengthily strings of fattened pearls and plump diamonds, caressing assigned skin as the mouth of an impassioned admirer.

And her fingers drifted between her thighs, finding those mature increments of flesh and causing moistness to boil form her innards. Her mouth was gaping, and her body was overtaken by a kind of sweetened ecstasy, soft and barely audible pleasure drifting from slackening lips.

That nude chest heaved, and she was placed within the arms of unidentifiable man, the grand imagine switching between that pretty Austrian and the Russian who seemed to dominate her totally.

They were tugging at her nipples and they were lapping at her senses, leaving handsome magenta stains wherever they touched, and crippling her, the love addict finally collapsing to the substance.

Either held her softly, Ivan nipping at her ears and mouth and Roderich buried between her knees, causing that throat to comply with every last nerve inside her figure.

Elizaveta wanted that Austrian and she wanted that Russian, despite the sinful thoughts of rancid betrayal infesting her blood and causing her logic to cry out in twisted anguish.

But those protests could not match those of the mighty beast labeled satisfaction, which held her attraction and refused to release her until it's time had been admonished.

So the muse became a servant, allotting digits to her crevice and brining fluid to that aching pearl, the one permitting such glorious burn.

Numerals created circles; they sunk in deeply and submerged; they danced and they swam and they caused the woman to sing.

Then, she released, that canal flooding and her orifice drowning within happy noise.

And logic came back, the title wave to the calmed shore.

Not yet had she and Ivan bonded. It felt as thought a promise was housed beneath that basic understanding, and was the one true and glorious article that could keep her from the scarlet brand of an adulteress.

It was times such as these that her subconscious hollered its angriest diatribes. And she would not block them out, even when her palm s connected with her earlobes.

That fateful speech was always shaped as, "You don't love Ivan." Or, "How dare you stab Roderich in the back?"

"You still love him."

"What a harlot you are."

And of course, that woman would always be brought to face her previous God, her Austrian, her _Roderich_, her man. She would wonder how she could move on, move on to someone who had burned her companion and lied to shattered heart of a young girl.

But even that would not shake sentiment, because despite all of those tattered rumors and God-ridden tales, Ivan had showed shimmering kindness to her judgment, and through only her own experience could she weld thought.

Then there was guilt.

The jar had nearly been inhabited halfway.

Elizaveta had created wishes toward all those housemates, to Ivan, to Natasha, to Toris, To Katya, To Eduard, To Raivis. To all of them. And to Roderich. The suffocating muse fervently wrote for his well being, for his health as well as his bliss. She wished their eyes could connect again, gazes waltzing as though they were lovers committed to years. She wished for his heart to flourish, that music to fill all of those stretching halls and warmth to radiate all about his choking cadaver.

She wished that he still loved her.

And she wished she could earnestly return that affection, the undying conflagration made to the faltering ember. It was only when his golden image occurred to her hat such passion was instilled.

Those bare seconds were nothing but ephemeral.

But sometimes they engendered tears.

So, the naked thing rose and she took placement at her desk, pulling parchment from a drawer and taking up her finest pen.

'I wish Roderich was here.'

Then she removed all her lavish embellishment, and she was clothed within ancient silk.


	33. Chapter 33

Natasha watched as Ivan tossed that letter into the fire, flame engulfing that innocent Austrian parchment and converting words of love into simplistic ash. It was then the naïve girl knew how intense that man's passion was. Roderich was a threat and therefore eliminated, his embodiment burned and not even granted a considerate urn.

Then, after playing witness to bitter murder, the doll came to her owner and stood before him, hoping with her entire soul that some saddened remnant of his core could be allotted to her starving hands.

"Hello, Natasha." A voice shaped in emptiness.

"Hello, Ivan…"

Their gazes connected within the insatiable conflagration, and that atmosphere froze within its unkind silence.

"Ivan?"

"What is it?"

"Do you think we could go out sometime soon?" Sugared cerulean gems came to their holder, pleading, praying, and begging for only a portion of that crux.

But Natasha's chalice had been dropped and shattered.

"No. We can't."

"Oh…Are you busy?"

"No." the Russian man watched that paper disintegrate. "I don't love you. I'm sorry." That visage was something pallid and dead. "I don't want to lie to you anymore."

Then came the certain injection of uncut doubt and terrible confusion, even though those phrases had been well expected ever since Natasha had suspected the truth. It was the arrival of the awaited beheading, although no one believed that queen would be flung from her throne and into the guillotine.

Simply, the young creature let that unadulterated admission singe her. Her flesh was seared and her chest was made something mangled and barren. Ivan had used her, and pain was pushed through delicate pours all because Elizaveta had been correct the entire time.

And the victim of disabuse was left dumbfounded, lips astonished and logic beaten to a mutilated pulp, broken and strewn about those handsome boards. It was as though her bones had been grinded to dust while they supported her anatomy and those fractures might never return to their original state; Natasha would always be a cripple.

Although they might have never been healthy to begin with. Perhaps that foolish child had always been crippled; love aching as the tuberculosis that had claimed so many, collecting them slowly and twisting tem into ugly versions of themselves.

The Hungarian had the very same illness.

Only reality held the possible fix.

Just as Natasha's mangled state had just been given brutal exorcism.

"Does that upset you, Natasha?"

"Of course it does. Even though I had been waiting for you to say something along those lines, it still hurts. I've been loyal to you…And you would rather have a woman who would so easily stab her man in the back. What do you think she'll do to you, Ivan? If she left her first love, who she adored far longer than she adored you. What makes you think she'll stay?" The newly constituted woman allowed stoic tears to inhabit those lucid wells. "You've fallen for someone who doesn't need you. And you've sent me down a well, after all the love I've pledged to you and all I've done. I've listened and now you're running from me." Finally the steady voice shook. "I hope Elizaveta hurts you. I hope she makes you fall for her and then casts you aside, like you're worth nothing after telling you so easily, 'I don't love you.' Maybe you don't understand how much it burns, but I certainly hope you will."

Building sorrow was eased from those dampened cheeks.

And in that passionate upset, the youth with such shattered innocence ran, expression converting to mutilated wrinkles to allot for the coming deluge. Palms secured her morphing lips, mouth ornate in a wallowing howl.

Natasha went to her room, and she did not come out.

It was after dinner when her Valliant Toris came to take the caked on mud from her sullen gown and bandage all her lacerations.

He opened that porthole in gentle yield, and he drifted to her, wrapping his arms around that broken anatomy and acting as a cast to each of her bones left to remnants and agonizing purgatory.

And at that contact, there was even more rutting misery.

Because she was doing the very same thing to Toris that Ivan did to her.

And he was so hopeless, so kind, so giving and so patient. The doll held that sharpened dagger, and was ordained to make her admirer's throat and eyes raw.

"Natasha, what's the matter? I saw that you weren't at dinner and they told me you were upset. Is everything alright?"

"No…"

The light was searing burns into the demon's withered flesh.

"No, Toris…" A gasp. "Today Ivan told me that-" She could not bear to complete that statement, but with determination, the phrase was forced into her mouth. One cannot choke upon words. "He told me that he didn't love me…"

Then the man in the middle of the lightning storm was struck about the head. "Well…Why would that matter?" Veins tangled. "Natasha, did you love him?"

When there was not a reply, only a guilty swallow, that bitter knowledge was granted.

"…Yes." The monster fell. "I'm sorry."

Then there were progressive seconds for that truth to sink in through narrow pours, Toris made to analyze every last off occurrence within that flashing mind and pinpoint where exactly adoration had soured.

"I'm sorry…"

"Do you love me?" Brows usually so rested grew cross.

"Not as I should." A great breath. "You've been so kind to me, and I value you. But I'm not in love with you. I couldn't tell you the truth-Because seeing you hurt would break my heart…So I lied to make you happy. Despite my feelings, you deserved affection. And I do love you. But not in the way you would like me to."

Without a single beat missed, "Just how did he use you, Natasha?"

Again, that gaping silence was far louder than any word.

"He took you, didn't he?"

A sordid nod.

It was then Toris set his muse down. "I wish you didn't lie to me. Because I would never dream of lying to you. I'm obviously worth nothing. Even after giving you all I could, it wasn't enough for the truth." Toris rose. "I hope you feel better soon, Natasha. I won't be returning."

And in a course of short hours, causalities had been made of the civilians. Pedestrians had been lowered to the center of a war zone and shots were fired against the ones who never knew there was a war to begin with.

So, Toris limped away, hurt, but no longer blind. Natasha had made that man stronger, despite afflicting him with her forceful dagger. Those eyes had been torn open, and no longer was that kindly man disabled by passion.

And the woman who had taken his sight and returned that article realized she had no one; No Ivan, No Toris, _No One._ The woman was thrown from an airplane and she had been the one who jumped.

Her corpse lied against the grass, and she took a single breath.


	34. Chapter 34

Elizaveta stood within Ivan's room, her eyes rolling over everything inside that quaint chamber, the desk, the rich crimson curtains, the large rug splayed about that floor, embellished in golden patterns. She regarded that towering book case, over populated with novels, their spines broken and heir state something of stifling age.

She had been inside his room previously, but not often. Every time her presence was admitted, the woman felt as though she was captivated within a grand wonderland, ornate in all things that reminded her of home, the books, and the massive bed with such thick and soft blankets and pillows bursting with clean white feathers. There was even a radio sitting upon a night stand centered about one corner, and Ivan would listen to it in his alone time, closing his eyes and drifting to another section of that globe, away from Russia, away from Europe.

And the man sat against those sheets, a gift resting against his lap, its hide a rich crimson and it's flesh lavish in a large crimson bow.

"Is that for me, Mr. Braginski?"

"Yes. It is."

The sacrifice was held to the goddess, and those curious thumbs examined the worshipper's cautious folds and that pretty ornament centered upon it's brow.

"It's so lovely. I'd feel bad if I tore it open."

"Well…You're allowed to. That's what it's for, isn't it?" That convincing smile. "Please. I want to see your face when you open it."

"Alright. I will. Thank you." Those demure digits dug into the upper layer of flesh and skinned that article, shimmering paper falling around the siren's feet in lovely pigmented coils.

And lying inside her grasp was a luxurious coat with gorgeous oaken buttons, polished and glistening as though the tailor had collected stars from the night and pinned them about that happy fabric.

It was not crafted from fur; nor was it necessarily light cloth. Its hide was thick and deep as pearl, smooth and easily admirable, and within those gaping pockets, her melting heart drained.

"Oh, Ivan. You didn't have to give me such a thing. It's so beautiful."

"Of course I did. The coat you have now is far too heavy and it's still too cold outside to wear only clothes. Please. Try it on."

So those lush sleeves slipped around the woman's shapely arms and the buttons found their occupations, hugging that figure as though it was constructed for the wearer's anatomy.

"That looks great. Do you like it?"

"It's very nice…Thank you." A petit curl graced the muse's lips. Pretty fingers ran over that fine garment.

"Why don't you come over here? I want to see that on you…"

"You do it see on me." Yet, the Hungarian drew nearer, deeper into the spider's nest.

And the Russian stood, resting those hands upon the woman's dainty shoulders. They were weighty, and immediately, pigmentation slid into those fragile apples.

"You're lovely, Elizaveta." A peck pinned to that dollish visage, those weighty and muscular arms fell around that endearing frame. Then another sugared press.

Elizaveta connected their mouths, the queen's palms traveling over those broad shoulders and that pair drawing closer, two ropes swinging together.

And suddenly, they came apart, staring into one another's gazes.

The jewel read all of that growing passion, that desire for flesh and love and affection. Even glancing over those axiomatic wounds brought a certain flush, that chest growing hot and those lips hanging agape.

She was not surprised. Ivan Braginski was a man, not a stupid boy, but a man. And that appearance was familiar. She had seen similar yearning within Roderich's expression, as there had been urges against her betraying visage as well.

In uncertainly, a hand came to that pallid cheek, blades buried beneath dull golden follicles. That hide held the texture of fresh silk, and orifices became something as magnets, wishing to meld together and birth warmth into either vessel.

"I love you, Elizaveta."

"I love you too, Ivan…" There was a certain sting to that phrase. "You're pretty."

"Pretty?" A twisted grin.

"_Handsome._"

Then there was a moment of comfortable silence, that pair regarding one another and drowning within a deeper embrace.

"Thank you, Elizaveta." Another kiss embellished the side of that woman's face, and once more, lips bonded.

And then, the man unfastened the first criminal button containing that nymph inside her handsome wrapping. She did not cease that progression, nor did she quit that heavy cloth from rolling against the small of her back. It dropped to her feet, as a limp structure crashing to forgettable abyss.

Then went her normal attire, the zipper to those glorious silks, sinking as an anvil from an airplane.

With loosened skin against those nerves, Elizaveta caught the crafty hands that intended to claim her.

"Ivan…"

"Please. We can go as slowly as you wish. I'll be gentle with you…I'll do whatever you like."

As those enormous fingers were held inside that fragile grasp, the goddess formulated her thoughts, the threshold to betrayal just before those demure and polished shoes. Those innocent shoes. Those foolish shoes.

Even with such basic emotion and mere touches, a fire passionate as a conflagration had been built inside the Hungarian's blood. It had been _so_ long; months since her last physical interaction.

It was as holding food to the starving man, or wine to the recovering alcoholic, fresh from treatment.

Love making was a necessity as well.

So Elizaveta answered, allowing their orifices to tangle and that assumed layer to pile around her ankles. She was held tightly and either made their way to that comforting bed, the bare-breasted woman's dainty shoulder blades first to the comforter.

Something within her knew this moment would occur. There was not a ready admission to that truth. But the fact was evident, looming as a phantom that found to rest within sweetened end.

Ivan's upper half was removed, that white fabric falling to the ground as though it meant nothing. And as that duchess regarded that massive form, those muscles that curled as knots inside a rope, her heart began to pound against her rib cage, crying within her ears and causing certain moisture to gather between her thighs.

Slowly, the man descended upon her, one of those palms finding refuge upon her supple collar. And them, it sank to that bosom, nerves seeming to meld together as though wires were combining in an outrageous passion.

And Ivan began to play with those breasts, orifice enveloping one of those pert nipples and fingers tugging upon the other.

"Aaah…"

Grasps devoured that dictator's form, touch coming to those nude shoulder blades and that smooth thicket of fluffy blond hair.

It seemed as though either had finally been gratified of their sick desires, coming together after long weeks of mangled adoration and needs that twisted innards into mutated coils.

The guilt was not present, the woman forgetting shame for those natural longings towards another and that man stowing those sentiments all because he had stolen another's gems as a cruel bandit. There was indeed that poignant logic, but the Russian's ugly temptations drove him far further than the knowledge of another who resided so many countries away.

And that member was battling away a strict zipper, because the Hungarian had been within the bearer's mind for so very long.

He sampled those blossoms, recalling what those women enjoyed against their figures, how they enjoyed Ivan's rolling touch upon such sensitive regions.

"Aaah…"

He recalled quite well.

A line of kisses was drawn about the woman's stomach, down to her undergarments, until his knees were falling from the bed. And Elizaveta regarded that figure, catching her at such a fragile position, his grand palms rounding her shapely hips and begging to remove the only cloth standing between the woman's fidelity and his satisfaction. A finger found refuge beneath that sad attire, and when the wearer did not launch angered protest, her thighs were stripped naked and that pure silk had crumpled against the boards.

And there she was. Ivan's pearl in all her unfettered glisten. With soft request, he spread her legs, allotting blades to her supple flesh.

Already, that crevice had been soaked; boiling over.

So, the tip of that tongue pressed to that little pink bulb, and immediately evoked a heavy moan from that defenseless Lorelei.

"Ah…"

And then that organ probed slightly deeper, causing euphoria to surge through her susceptible nerves.

Oh, it had been so long.

Elizaveta closed her weary eyes and allowed those plump lips to grow slack, Ivan's tongue sketching satisfaction about her wetted orifice.

"Do you like this?" The Russian's tone came as honey to a barren mouth.

"Yes…"

The former queen remembered her last darling, who would grant such potent ecstasy and passion to run through those strong veins and possess that screaming heart.

There was a sudden ache within the poor woman's chest.

Then a moan split the air.

"Ah! Aaah…_Vanya._"

The employed mounds curved and that tongue dug in deeper.

And the siren nearly sang. Ivan had to rise a moment.

Elizaveta watched intently as those trousers came undone, garments gathering around his ankles and legs freed of their tightened prison, that erection stood, tall and well engorged in pulsing blood.

There was not surprise paid to the girth of that appendage.

"Lie on the bed, Ivan."

So Ivan lied on the bed.

The petit woman positioned that begging tunnel before her lover's mouth, her own lips hanging above his lonesome manhood. Without much consideration, Elizaveta's palm overtook that hardened base and those mounds spread, accepting that head upon her emptied buds. Then she began to draw upon that cock with a gentle pull, yanking pleasure from her opposite's lungs.

"Aaah…"

Then Ivan took up his own duty, continuing to done bliss to the body above his own, fingers seeking homes within that warmed nook.

"Hmm…"

Those numerals inhabited her quite well.

And the pair went on, savoring and prodding and stroking and moaning, all until the man's head collapsed against that pillow.

"…I want you."

The duchess annulled her admittance to utter euphoria, dismounting that large anatomy with the in between of her legs nearly drowning. She sat at her admirer's side, kissing that hide with her own senses.

"I want you too…" Her back resided within the vacant home at Ivan's flank, those thighs somewhat far from one another.

And he came upon her, their gazes waltzing as the very tip of that member kissed to a delicate opening. Elizaveta shut her pretty vision, as though it was the first time such an act had been placed upon her shoulders. Those lids had been welded shut when Roderich claimed her virginity.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes…"

That organ was submerged, cries of base satisfaction molding either set of lips.

There was no stepping back now.

The deed might as well have been completed.

Their love had been consummated.

And the man began to work those wide hips, grasping onto his darling wherever those massive hands could take their purchase. He held her frail shoulder blades, that waist, the doll's narrow hips, slightly, he even tugged upon those ringlets, those coils that had capitulated him numerous times over.

"Aah! Ivan!"

Elizaveta found herself doing the same, holding to those broad shoulders and wrapping limbs around what flesh she could.

And the Russian was soft with his muse, their forms possessed by impassioned phantoms and their blood running together as a single breathing creature, breaths synchronized in honeyed unison and skin becoming a commune, a wide open home made to contain affection.

The woman's lips parted; her lashes seemed to weld together, boiling sentiment leaking against those flushed cheeks. It was hard to identify the cause of those broken droplets, perhaps because it had been such a terrible duration since her form had been wrapped within another's. Perhaps because Ivan Braginski was offering such wondrous stimulation to each of those once starving senses. Perhaps because he was not Roderich and that beautiful love making had caused the once loyal wife to hold the dagger of a hackneyed trader. Perhaps it was all of those things. Perhaps it was none at all.

But the man centered above her was undeniably skilled with the movements of his enormous form, holding his beloved empress so kindly and donning her grand euphoria.

Perhaps that was the reason hapless upset shook her. She should not have taken true satisfaction from the darkest of sin.

But those breaking dams did not hinder her cries.

"_Aaah!_" And Elizaveta's arms more fully captured her murderer. "Ah…Ivan."

"Elizaveta…"

The Russian man sank in deeply, filling the woman's drowning crevice as though those organs were pieces of a sequence puzzle. Either fit perfectly. Just as each form kept striving towards the same nirvana.

They grasped at one another with even more vehement numerals, the woman's back arched while the man donned even more speed, those motions becoming something well primal and submerged in basic need.

Their cries overpopulated the room, Elizaveta moaning loudly with her lover exhibiting the very same symptoms. And neither gave any concern, as though they were attempting to shatter those paper thin barriers with sound alone.

And then those walls pulsated and the Hungarian relaxed beneath her occupied lover, tears streaming about her face and lips gaping, begging for air. Ivan was soon to join her, that pair melding their gazes and their souls once against two separate entities.

He collapsed next to her.

Immediately, the crying doll was stolen into an affectionate embrace, contained against that large man's chest. Ivan began to kiss the bitter crystals away, keeping his precious trinket at a sweet proximity.

"I love you…Please don't cry." Another tinge donated to that flourished cheek. "You're so lovely, Elizaveta."

And at those kind words, so sweet, the cracked vase finally shattered. "I'm sorry, Ivan…" A mighty breath. "I love you."

"I love you too…"

And they held one another, the ruler saturated within sleep's high and the concubine calming, finding comfort against that warmed figure and that soft flesh.

She too was suffocated in the advances of dreams.

Neither moved for hours.


	35. Chapter 35

The grey woman regarded that curious coat, taking up so much room against her sheets, the hue of it, those buttons which might as well have been melded of pricey gems, the silken thread holding each pearl together. But she could not bring herself to admire it. After all, it was the very object she had traded for fidelity.

And then she glanced at that horrid blank parchment; its stark expression and its virgin flesh. Her pen marred it, brilliant ebony ink ruining that pleasant surface, words decimating an article once so pure, as a blatant stain upon unscathed silk.

Her words did not leave until her lungs were brimming in breath and her eyes were laced with fragile tears. There was so very much wrong, and it seemed as though she could finally see it, view each one of her faults and those twisted occurrences as though they were photographs stored within an album, organized and dated in ornate crimson ink.

And the note, scribed in such emotional Cyrillic was stowed inside that jar, which had grown pregnant in so much hope and so much misery.

Then Elizaveta took her coat, dousing her body inside it, and moved outside, to the garden. To all the forming green managing finally to overrun the crippling frost.

The duchess found her bench.

And upon that bench she found Toris.

They did not speak at first, but with gaze drawing a bridge between them in an axiomatic sorrow. Toris regarded that doll, hatred and understanding and inexplicable need strewn about his face. Elizaveta was the imbalance; they all knew it.

"Hello, Toris…" The voice was dour.

"Hello, Elizaveta." He had been crying. "Are you going to tell Ivan that I'm not working?"

"No. I care about you."

Either pointed their attention forward, and choked upon their fates.

"Do you hate me, Toris?"

"No…" A heaving swallow. "I don't."

Then the world grew still, and those wells, bled dry, took to those innocent emerald phalanges fighting against the ice, the few flowers stubborn enough to blossom, those feet, clothed in black and providing such a terrible contrast to the sullen earth.

"I'm so glad to hear you don't." The former empress began to cry. "I can see it in all of their faces. Even in Katya's…They think I'm a traitor, a harlot. But how can I blame them, Toris?" A deepened gulp. "I've sold everything. My honestly. My sanity. And for what? Someone to call my own? These privileges? _A coat?_ It's disgusting. And I hate myself for it. Even more than they do." A hackneyed set of knuckles to the upset from the woman's visage. "So I'm relieved to hear that I have someone who can find it in their heart not to hate me. You deserved so much more than they gave you…So much more than what they did to you."

In an impulse, Elizaveta stole Toris' hand within her own, capturing it as though she had found a golden trinket within muddied snow.

"You were always too good. I don't even know you all that well, and I can see it. Clear as a diamond. You're a wonderful man and Natasha was a foolish girl. I'm so sorry she was cruel…That Ivan was so selfish to take her from you, even when he didn't want her. You had done nothing wrong and it's _so_ unjust and _so_ terrible…And your poor hands." The Hungarian held those beaten things as though they were once articles of great worth, but had been rusted and withered within the harsh wind of time and slavery. "You work so hard…They should have had more decency than that."

And to those phrases, the honest soul, that wondrous lover, shattered. Sobs inhabited his mouth as though he was a child of only three, keeping nothing within that vacant heart and nothing from those drowning orbs.

"How could I not have known?" A weighty sob. "It was right before my eyes and I just wouldn't see it."

For a moment, that servant sobbed while the excommunicated monarch held him, rubbing his back and keeping him so near, as though Toris was her child, and everything he felt had been her own pain.

Then, he finally calmed.

"I'm so upset, Elizaveta. How could she? I was good to her. I know I couldn't give a lot. But I tried. Just to make her happy, to see her smile. I loved her." Toris wiped his eyes. "I just couldn't understand how someone could take someone else's kindness and-_use_ them. And lie to them. I was never dishonest about my feelings. If I was upset, I was upset. If I was happy, I was happy. So why couldn't I have the same? I've been asking myself what I had done to deserve such treatment. Why Natasha had to lie to me, even though I had given her my entire heart…If she loved Ivan, she could have told me. I would have been happy just to have her as my friend. But now I can't even look at her without becoming sick to my stomach. Because I _still_ love her. Even after all of this anger and sadness, I still love her. I think I could forgive her if she came to me and said she was sorry; said she should have just told me the truth in the first place. I might even allow myself to love her fully, as stupid as that is. And I wish she would. I'm just so tired of feeling sad. And all over someone who doesn't deserve these emotions. But I can't help it." That visage was cleaned of its weeping. "But I feel better now, because someone has _finally_ listened." The man managed a mutilated simper. "So thank you…"

There was a moment of silence.

"They only hate you because they're jealous, Elizaveta. But I don't hate you. You're a nice woman. Not even Ivan can take that from you…I can understand why you've taken what you can. Hell, if I was offered not to work, I wouldn't. I'm so tired of this…I can't even be upset with you for taking that opportunity. It would be like refusing gold or choosing not to live in a mansion. I'm not certain of who wouldn't take it." The benevolent man swallowed. "You're just fortunate. And we are not. Ivan loves you. You might as well be the owner of this house, not him. At least, not anymore…"

The emperor's concubine was uncertain of what to say. "…It still feels wrong. I was happy with Roderich. And never would I have given him up for another. _Never._ But now it's like I'm forgetting him; everything he's done…" Her sight drifted into the snow. "I wish I could have him back. Because I know the moment I see him, everything will return. But it's been so long since I've been home. And he hasn't sent me a letter in I don't know how long. Maybe he figured out all these horrible secrets I have. I don't think I would send even a word to someone who stabbed me in the back."

"Do you love Ivan, Elizaveta?"

"I do…I know I shouldn't, but I do. I can't tell you why." Those dejected jewels shot to the sky, still so very grey. "It's ridiculous. But I was so tired of having no one; of being along and holding this loss; this _nothing._" Finally, the Hungarian shook her head. "I'm not even certain what I'm saying any longer."

"That's alright. I think I understand."

"Good." A sullen laugh. "Good...I couldn't possibly explain it any better than that."

And either soul cast their glances into those oppressive clouds, their misery exorcised, and their palms joined in a needed friendship. They were not near to one another. And they suffered of different viruses. But there was comfort birthed of understanding, anxious cruxes could finally sleep. The symptoms would return. The depression would keep its roots within their fragile minds. And they would be troubled by the universe ordained by Ivan Braginski.

But at that very tick, all those minutes, they were free. Free because finally someone was there to listen; someone was there to retain that judgment and malcontent. And having those demons expelled offered temporary paradise.

A ray of shimmering light had broken from the blackened sky and shined upon that pair with oaken hued hair and eyes composed in viable shades.

Finally, those broken wings could manage flight.


	36. Chapter 36

Natasha begged the sky for advice, those cerulean orbs well inhabited in their anguish. Her face was exhausted, insomnia marring that visage as though it came equipped with sharpened claws, vindictive as daggers.

The porcelain doll had finally shattered, sanity leaking from her around the pavement beneath those once clean shoes.

No longer could she rest; no longer could she work; no longer could she cry; no longer could she feel, all accept for the sudden and violent flashes of terrible rage. At times, things would lie destroyed in her wake, broken and crippled against lavish mats and ancient boards. She left them incurable. Fragmented and forever paralyzed.

Ivan had spoken to her about it. He pulled her aside. He told her she couldn't break his things when that impassioned wrath struck as lighting from the gods. He told her that it was wrong.

And to that, she said nothing.

He told her that she needed to control her emotions.

And to that, she said nothing.

He told her that she needed to calm herself.

And to that, she said nothing.

He told her that she needed to move forward.

And to that, she said nothing.

Then he asked her what exactly she had to say for herself, after breaking his pretty vases and knocking those handsome paintings from the walls.

And she rose, coming to those dancing flames birthed from their toils, from Toris' calloused flesh and Eduard's hackneyed shoulders.

"Natasha."

"It was cruel. What you did to me, Ivan. How long have we known each other? Years now. And all of those years, I have been good to you. I've done every last task you've given me. I've never complained. I loved you even when you began to lust for Katya, even though those times were seldom. And I still love you. But I can't articulate how hurt I am that you could not simply give me the truth…I could have at least given more of my heart to Toris and not felt so horribly guilty when I ceased lying. We're all hypocrites, aren't we? You use me. I use Toris. Elizaveta uses you. Or maybe she does love you. But you weren't first. That Austrian will haunt her until the day she leaves this place."

There was silence.

"Perhaps I shouldn't break your things. But you've made me this way."

"I haven't made you _any_ way. No one asked you to destroy everything you come into contact with."

"No. But perhaps if you wouldn't have been such a liar, I wouldn't be so upset. I almost feel as though I should tell Miss Héderváry that her letters are being burned. I think she'd appreciate knowing where exactly they've been going." They glanced to one another. "Don't you think she should be aware of how awful you are?"

"You wouldn't _dare._"

"Oh? You don't think so? I have no qualms of shattering your things. Why not your relationships, _Vanya?_ After all, you've shattered mine."

The world grew still.

"I'm sorry Natasha."

"How sweet. You pretend to care."

"_Please_, Natasha."

"Tell me why I shouldn't. Finally, I have you right beneath my thumb."

Again, a torturous moment of angered gazes, fighting in their fury.

Then Natasha left, taking the neck of a porcelain vase sitting near the fireplace and swinging it hard against the wall, once handsome glass transmuted to a grand mess of ash and broken bone. There were no words to accompany that violent symphony. Only silence and the raw clicking of Natasha's heels.

And Ivan sighed; his very affection was dangling by a fine red thread, supported by that girl's ruthless pinky finger. And she treated that delicate bond as a mere toy, bounding it up and down until the line threatened to snap clean in two.

Mr. Braginski went back to work.

For the first time, he felt powerless. And he was.

So Natasha glanced into the light, guilt present within her blood, but it was an action that needed to be completed, because for so very long, that poor child had been a slave. Not only to the Russian, but to sentiment itself. Love bound her limbs and cracked her bones. It slashed her vision with its talons and it wound her lips shut.

Then it intoxicated her.

And then it demolished her.

She was left with nothing when her sight healed and her fragmented limbs were set in casts.

Had Natasha not been such a rancid cripple, her fits of passionate destruction would have been far stronger. There was still an inkling of affection remaining for Ivan Braginski.

But she hated Elizaveta. She had _always_ hated Elizaveta.

She detested her because the Hungarian had been correct.

She detested her because the Hungarian had predicted the bitter future.

She detested her because the Hungarian had come and stolen away that glorious man, all before her hands could claim him, before those sights could even admire him fully, although vision had been cast upon his pearly flesh for so many years. And while Elizaveta committed those felonies, she made treason; she lied. The words constantly spilled from her lovely mouth always rang of her honeyed core to the mythical God, who no one had truly laid their observation upon. No. He was the deity who appeared only inside a pretty envelope, and then was burned alive by the vindictive palms of the thief who had possessed Natasha's poor and disabused crux.

It was so very wrong. To say that one is in love, and restate it, and restate it and restate it, and then snatch the golden egg from another's destitute hands. In such a short while, that nun so obsessed with her very own fidelity had turned a wanton whore, capitulating Mr. Braginski as though he was nothing but a boy, in love for the very first instance. Sickened by infatuation drowned in that unending desire that gnawed at him. A perpetual phantom.

However could her heart be joyous? However could the young woman bear to lay eyes against her counterpart; her nemesis? It was as though she was attempting to capsize a windmill with her bare and calloused palms. All she had located was a weak spot, and despite her harsh exterior, and all those frigid threats, the child did not have it within her to ruin such a precious article. It belonged to her former lover, and despite her anger, there was still a fragment of her that could not be wiped cleanly away by that powerful acid.

So the warrior did not turn the windmill, nor did she strike it.

She only walked away far more beaten by the horrid journey than the conflict itself. Because all that was given to her had been faux.

And Natasha cried. She had rendered herself useless; the desire for mangled revenge was potent as opium taken to overdose. So the porcelain doll remained, sobbing in internal bleeding.


	37. Chapter 37

"Has Roderich sent any letters?"

"No…" The man moved nearer to his Goddess, engulfing that petit figure in his own warmth. "No, he hasn't."

"I see."

"Don't worry, Elizaveta."

There was not a reply made.

"I love you…"The susceptible doll was swept up and placed upon the large man's chest, Ivan against his back. Kisses surrounded her visage and caused those cheeks to blossom as gorgeous pink blooms. And then the man rolled again, catching that poor muse beneath him and once again assaulting that glowing visage in his affections.

She nearly fell from his sheets.

So she laughed.

"Stop…" Limbs wrapped around the burly man's anatomy, to keep the corpse from damage upon the floor. "Put me back."

"Put you back? No." A sweetened attack to those supple lips. "No…" And another. "I like you here."

"Well _I_ don't like me here."

More of those sugared blows.

"Vanya…Please."

He caught her lips. "I like it when you call me Vanya." And the poor woman was moved back to her previous position. "There. Is that better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Elizaveta relaxed against that strong build, wishing to capture that evasive sleep. And she was not dressed, but between the blankets and the warmth exhibited from her Russian's snow white flesh, there was no need for such foolish garments.

"I'm tired."

"I know, Elizaveta." The ruler rested his gorgeous wells a silent duration. "I have to go on a trip soon…"

"Really? Why?"

"I have to meet up with my superiors. I'll be gone for a few days."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not allowed to tell anyone. But don't worry. It's nowhere too far. And I'll be alright." A lengthily peck to the goddess' brow. "I want you to watch over the house while I'm away."

"You want _me_ to do that?"

"Yes, Elizaveta. I trust you."

"But I don't know much about running households, much less telling people what to do."

"Isn't that what you did previously?"

"No. Roderich put out a lot of the orders. I just kept him company and occupied my time with a few hobbies…And after we split up, I didn't have much control at all. I only went to visit for long periods of time." Those shimmering emeralds grew dull and expired within sudden misery.

"Well, you're an intelligent woman. I'm sure you'll do a fine job. Just keep everything in order while I'm absent and make sure no one does anything against the rules…You know what they are."

"Who is usually in charge when you go off?"

"Toris. Sometimes Katya. It really just depends on who's shown the best behavior."

"But I've been lazy."

"Well, I told you to be lazy. And you followed my instructions perfectly. So I commend you, Elizaveta."

"I think you're playing favorites."

The man omitted sunny amusement. "Perhaps. Can you blame me?"

"No. I can't…I am pretty fantastic."

An additional round of bliss. "That's probably why I love you. Amongst other things…" The enormous palms came to the queen's shoulder blades, that grand cascade of tresses twining with Ivan's thick numerous. "You're very lovely."

"Thank you, Ivan." Those wells once again fell to their peace. "I like the texture of your skin…You're soft." The woman's hands gently rested along that wide collar bone. "And you eyes are pretty."

"I thought you said they were sad."

"They are sad…But that makes them even more striking. It takes a while to notice, but I can tell you've been through some harsh ordeals…" Those daring pads traced a small laceration about that hide. "You have some scars."

"I know I do."

"That's alright…" Lethargy set in, potent as rich opium. "We all do."

"Hmm."

So the pair relaxed against one another.

"Are you happy, Elizaveta?"

"I don't know, Ivan. Are you happy?"

"I am right now."

"I am too…"

"Life is hard. Sometimes it's difficult to be completely happy, even when you do have someone to love. But I'm happy when I'm near you. And I'm happy that I got to have you so close to me. And I'm unhappy when you're away from me."

"Stop loving me so much. Your poor heart is going to make you sick…"

"I know it will, Elizaveta."

A brief time of peace. "I'll miss you, Vanya. Don't think of me too often. I'm enough of a distraction." The Hungarian fell into the realm of partial dreams, when former logic crumbled and consciousness nonsense ruled.

"I'd rather think of you than all my stupid papers."

There was not even a response.

"Are you going to sleep?"

"Yes…"

"Then I'll let you rest. I love you, Elizaveta."

"I love you too…"

And the pair was capitulated by those subconscious notions, and that woman found herself haunted by her former darling, while the man was daunted by that great mountain stacked against him, his documents and the man who ordained them.

Those faux realities cried in their greatest hollers.


	38. Chapter 38

So the duchess converted to a queen stole her throne within that warmed chamber. They regarded her as something misplaced, a chicken amongst geese, a lotus amongst roses, a pear upon the peach tree.

And as they filed in, she gave them all the same duty.

"You're off today."

The reaction was always the same.

"Truly?" Or, "Do you mean that, Elizaveta?"

And to that, there was only, "Yes."

All accept for Natasha, who glared in blatant indignation.

"Didn't you hear me?" Elizaveta leaned far forward upon the bureau's slick and busy surface. "You're free. You can have the day to yourself." The sound of her crinkling silk made the girl feel as though she was chewing upon foil.

"Why would you give us time away from work? Ivan would never do anything of the sort."

"I'm not Ivan. And I'd like you all to be happy. I'm not a tyrant, Natasha."

Those gazes fought with wicked daggers.

"Has he taken you yet? Is that what this is about? He puts you in charge because you satisfy him?"

"That's none of your business."

"Has he? I thought you were too preoccupied obsessing over that Austrian of yours…No. You were busy removing the pearls from my necklace."

"Natasha, please leave."

"No."

Another barrage of glares.

"You deserve to be lied to. People like you ask for these things. You're so aggressive and paranoid and when things don't turn out the way you want them to, you blame everyone other than yourself. Perhaps if you weren't so frightening and possessive, Ivan would love you. That man only needed someone to be kind to him and show some caring. Not behave like an obsessed child. You made him uncomfortable. Of course he didn't love you. And he was so afraid of telling you the truth that he couldn't. That you would act in this manor, breaking things and leaving the entire house tarnished, so poor Katya has to clean up after you. If you're so willing to work, then work. I'll give you a job and you can do it. But until then, why don't you shut your stupid little mouth and get out of my sight? I'm growing sick of even glancing at you."

So Natasha left and traveled down those coiling corridors, rage swelling within her veins. She knew the empress could not be attacked, that her guardian would tear the assassin limb from limb.

But her chamber was another matter.

How many appendages would pay that thickening price?

Natasha passed her housemates, her former lovers and her deceased friends. Then she arrived against the concubine's doorstep, that ancient white threshold. Finding her form encased within that twisting dream.

She had to stop.

There were all the things she desired.

A pretty vase overpopulated in happy red roses, a coat rack supporting that handsome pearl garment, polished wood, completed by Ivan Braginski himself. A bed enveloped in blankets radiating within their warmth. Pillows grown fat with perfect feathers and perfume sitting upon her night stand.

Perfume.

Perfume.

Natasha took those innocent crimson blooms and sent them into gravity's horrid wake. Those pillows were torn by the fragile doll's brutal strength, possession sent into the hell fire screaming within the donor's furnace. Drawers were ripped from their positions, ancient notes from that kind Austrian strewn all about the floor, amongst the feathers from all those murdered creatures. Some even shattered, nails gone rusty and converting to foul dust; wood breaking into thousands of miserable fragments.

Silk was thrown, tarnished, torn, impaired, fractured, ruined.

And finally, Natasha landed upon those filthy sheets, embedded with the scent of Ivan Braginski and lingering sex. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes were littered with all her ill sentiment.

She looked upon that world, that realm left a pulp by her barbed claws and her venomous fangs. The ruin, the carnage, and then the jar.

The jar with that tiny crack within its luminescent forehead. She looked upon that body, stuffed with such potent innards.

Natasha came to that poor and hurt container, the bandit who had murdered and pillaged and found innocence upon that dirt floor, sobbing innocence, begging for a mother who could not be resurrected.

And the criminal swept up that world of secrets; she took it and left.

Elizaveta had not heard the destruction. Her chamber was placed far away, not within earshot of all that crying silk and porcelain. It was the gunshot no one had caught, the great scream of sound and the bullet no one had been able to pinpoint. Not Katya, not Toris, not Eduard, not Raivis, no one.

But that woman did return.

And she found her room askew.

Lips dropped and shock set as alcohol in the blood.

Elizaveta screamed in an unfettered rage, fists clenched and that utter destruction choking her constitution as a virus without cure. That jealous siren had given her that irrational anger, and in those horrid flames, the Hungarian bolted along those grand hallways, rushing towards the spoilt child's room and kicking open that frail porthole.

The subject was inside her container.

"How dare you ruin my room, you little bitch? How _dare_ you?" Elizaveta stepped onto that chamber, slamming her knuckled against the wall. "I should murder you!"

"You're a hypocrite, Elizaveta. You tell me I'm wrong, but you do the same things. You lie to Roderich. I lie to Toris. We both take Ivan. He just loves you…" Those brows creased within frustration. "Whore."

And to that, that once kind woman converted to a primal warrior, lunging at that girl and catching her foolish prey around the throat. Her hands tightened, and within seconds, Natasha was against those dusty boards, skull knocked upon them as branch to the drum.

"You little bitch! _You little bitch!_ I should knock your goddamn teeth out! I should strangle you until you stop breathing! I should throw you from the window and _pray_ that you break your spine!"

The young thing gasped for breath, kicking her legs and clawing at the harpy's grasp, but to no avail.

"I should wring your _fucking_ neck! I should break your ribs!"

A wheeze. "Please…Stop…"

"Stop?" The hold grew even more intense. "Stop? _You didn't stop! You never stopped!_ Stop? _You stop!_"

The fool was allowed free, her neck bruised and her wells overflowing. And they stared at one another, the elder still possessed in her conflagration.

"Elizaveta."

"Don't you speak!" A fist drove against those cheek bones, knuckles fast and hard as was physically possible. Anger was transferred from those brutal arms to the doll's visage, as though causing Natasha to revert to base hues, magenta, rose, azure, and crimson would heal all the world's problems.

Her nose bled. Her sockets were marred shut. She adopted unwanted splotches upon that canvas, the woman placing them against that appealing parchment as an artist taken within impassioned feelings, flowing through her veins in such lighting speed. An animalistic scream left her churning lips, sobbing, hollering and continuing to brand that murderer in her tarnished pigmentation.

And so suddenly, she was yanked form that cadaver, the soul having fallen unconscious and the corpse made to inhabit the same fractures she had inflicted.

And Elizaveta turned to the one who had taken her from the dead anatomy, throwing force into that susceptible form.

She clocked Toris.

He landed upon the floor.

"Elizaveta, _stop!_"

The siren was sucking in breath as though a marathon had been completed beneath her tired heels, sweat drenching her brow and those once gorgeous strands in plain disarray; the silken cat with its fur standing upright.

"Stop!" The Lithuanian took blood from beneath his nostrils. "Can't you see that she's unconscious? You won! Just stop!"

The world kissed the woman, embracing her tingling flesh and bringing exhaustion upon her feral heart. Her heaving figure collapsed upon that calming ocean of sheets, and her eyes caught the man.

"Why did you do this to her?"

Stillness.

"Why did you do it?"

"I'm sorry, Toris…I'm sorry I hit you." Drying heaves. "She destroyed my room. Tore up my pillows and gowns and broken my things. All of them…That's why."

The man was rendered stupid.

The woman began to cry.

And inside that bitter peace, that mistress driven to insanity came to the balls of her feet and drifted away, leaving to their horrid scene and their discomfort.

The hurricane had dried up. The tsunami had receded. The earthquake had ceased. Then all that remained was the aftermath, the malcontent ruin. The rubble. The mockery. The heart break.

And the disaster came to her refuge, ruined by the storm, and fell against that shredded mattress. She drank of her delusions, as an alcoholic to the finest of reddened wine.

The morning would not be the same. The fracture afflicting that once pretty mannequin would not subside in young hours. The Lorelei's chamber would not be set back to its embellished state. Ivan would not return to play the mediation.

The sword cut to the marrow, and no doctor was present to place bandages.

So Elizaveta slept. For it was all she was capable of.


	39. Chapter 39

The jar had been stolen, but Elizaveta said nothing. She only sat at her throne with her mended silks and betrayal's hackneyed scars apparent about her visage.

The house was quiet.

And the king returned.

Natasha caught him immediately.

"Ivan…" Her battered orbs did not meet his attention.

"What happened to you, Natasha?" That large hand lifted her sullen chin, and the man regarded that tarnished painting, the crackling statue. The shattered doll. There was even sorrow within his eyes, something of an apology.

"Your little whore did this to me."

The palm was taken from the child's frame.

"Why?"

"I ruined her things after she insulted me. And I found something that you might find interesting."

"…Did she knock out your teeth?"

"No. But she was kind enough to break my nose and nearly blind me. However, she left me my teeth. Elizaveta is a sweet tyrant."

"You ruined her things. You can't blame her entirely."

"Regardless, you should see this thing I found…Something she was hiding."

"_Hiding?_"

"Yes. Hiding."

"What is it?"

"Come with me. I'll show you."

So Ivan came to Natasha's chamber and from beneath the boards came that broken container, that great jar of saddened hope surrendered to the man who was never meant to lay his filthy sight against it. The jar was panicking, shaking within the palm of a vindictive deity.

And its head was removed.

"They all say about the same thing. But I think you should read the larger note near the bottom."

Ivan was uncertain as to what exactly should be felt. What was supposed to be apparent? His stomach churned into a knot, as though he was a child holding a bottle of strong vodka, a kind and holy man standing in the face of a morphine addiction. His enormous fingers did not wish to pry the innards from that cadaver. He did not want to know what the dead woman locked so deeply away within her crux. But he was as Adam who held the half bitten apple within his uncertain palms.

It was simply human nature to take a bite.

So he did.

And he sat upon the beaten peasant's sheets.

Each little thought was yanked from its former province and cracked open, the queen's core pouring upon those increments of parchment and coming to tsar's probing stare. Once they were drained of their secrecy, they were collected within a pile to the man's right, the only truth remaining curled at the base of that saddened and voided constitution, afraid, and alone. There was nowhere for that poor creature to hide.

And the man hesitated a moment, knowing he was about to devour that last chamber of his lover's zenith. Something she was not willing to abandon to his view.

But that fragment was taken, the last golden fruit within that once gorgeous bowl.

Its spine was broken, unfolded, cracked, undone, unraveled.

Then there were the words. All of them stacked as a proud tower.

And he read.

'I wish Katya had not been burned. I wish Toris had not been seared by Natasha' actions. I wish Natasha could resolve her problems without so much pain and so much violence. I wish everyone within this home-this mental institution- was happier. I wish Ivan was happier. I wish his heart wasn't so encased in sadness and the past, something that will never be altered. I wish I knew what occurred to him. I wish I could take the scars from his shoulders. I wish things weren't so hard; for him; for them. For everyone. I wish the sun would shine. I wish the clouds would dissipate. I wish the portraits would grin.

'And I wish I could see Roderich again. Despite everything that occurred, even the duality within my soul, I still love him. He returned in segments and every time he does it's like I was punched in the mouth by something far stronger than myself. I wish he was happy, because any man that devotes so much time to another does not deserve to be stabbed in the back, to be kept in misery and loneliness, all for someone who cannot demand those emotions. I wish he would move on, find another woman to keep him occupied and keep those demons from getting to him. I wish he was mine. I wish I could have him again and tell him how much I miss him, because I truly do, and guilt strikes like a hammer every time I think of how horrible it must be. And the poor man does not even know. I wish the welds within our hearts would heal. I wish I was allowed to love Roderich. I wish those goddamn Nazis never took what was not theirs. I wish I could have my life back, upon the hills of beautiful Austria, back inside my darling's arms. Where I belong.

'I wish I did not love Ivan Braginski. I wish I hated him as all the others do. I wish I couldn't forgive him for enslaving me and wearing my house mates to the bone. I wish I could hate him for harming Katya and Natasha and Toris and Raivis and Eduard. I wish I could hate him for harming me. I just wish I could hate him; detest him. I wish there no love at all. I wish my heart could be cleaned of all these stupid thoughts. I wish he would stop enticing me with all these fantastic gems and coats and whatever is to come. I wish I wasn't such a shallow woman. I wasn't like this before. I wish the sadness could be bleached from his eyes. Because then I would not feel this sympathy. I wouldn't feel so terrible when he says to me that he's so unloved, even though he brought all of these ill feelings upon himself.

'I wish I had more sense within my head. I wish that these stupid thoughts were dead and I need not cry about them so frequently as I am now. I wish loving someone didn't bring me such pain. I wish it was easier to abhor Ivan. I simply wish I was not here, lost in guilt and pity and sorrow.

'I wish I was in a felid of flowers with my love, continents away from the Soviet Union. I wish my basket had not been emptied of all its pearls and blooms and filled with dirt and a cheap tombstone. I just wish I was home, because this hell can never be mine. Not in months or years or decades or even my entire life, no matter who is here and what is done.

'I wish things were simpler.

'But not even God will allow me that.'

That was all.

And Ivan solemnly replaced the core that was not his own, yet streaked those eyes with the muse's dejected passion. The truth had finally cornered him. And it cut the man into fragmented sections of himself.

Ivan would never replace Roderich.

It did not matter how much he bled for his diamond. It did not matter how intense his own adoration was. Roderich had expressed far more crimson than he, and never would be even scratch those far away loyalties.

He was attempting to break something far stronger than his own power, and no matter how he thrashed that steel chain upon the marble tiles, only mere lacerations would form and they would heal instantaneously.

There was no exorcist powerful enough to purge Elizaveta of that Austrian phantom.

So how could Ivan?

And he looked to Natasha, the one who understood what he had become, what his very brain waves spoke. What the singular and loud thumping of his chest had to relay. What he would be. Who he was.

Finally, the tsar opened his mouth. "…I'm sorry, Natasha. I didn't mean to harm you."

"That's alright, Ivan. I understand."

A nod compromised by sour belief. "I think I'm going for a walk now. I need to think."

"Do whatever you like. You're the one in charge, Ivan."

So the giant rose, and stumbled through all the doors he had only just crossed, running into the chill he had just managed to evade.

No one had seen hi the rest of that day. No one bothered to look.


	40. Chapter 40

"Well…You called me here for something. What's the matter, Ivan?"

The sat in their privacy downstairs, centered within a parlor holding comfortable and somber lighting. The fire place was the one source of light, and despite that attitude, one could very well freeze to death. It was winter once more.

And Ivan's face was washed of all its natural hue, that white visage falling even deeper into disguising purity and those wallowing gems exploiting every last fragment of their mutilated distress

Words came like daggers from the innards of that Russian man. "…Natasha showed me your jar."

"Did she?" The concubine grew cross. "That wasn't meant for you to see, much less Natasha or anyone else for that matter. Why didn't you simply ask her to return it? You knew it wasn't hers."

"I know…But I was curious."

"So what? I suppose you wish to speak now."

"Yes."The man regarded his desiccated hands, worn from the cold. "Did you mean everything that you wrote?"

"That depends. How much did you read?"

"All of it."

"Then yes. I meant every last word. That's why it was no one's business but my own. I had that hidden away, where no one could find it. I'm hurt that you didn't realize that." The woman set her attention to flames. "I used that jar when I was feeling the worst. When I had no one to speak with and no one to listen. It was mine. For all my prayers and all my hopes. I'm sorry is they weren't what you wished them to be, but the state of this home bothers me greatly."

Silence.

"I still find it absolutely ridiculous that none of us are allowed our freedom. That I'm trustworthy, and yet, I can't take two paces from that door without waking up alarms and bringing out your wrath. It's like a prison; even the air is stained and suffocated."

"So what does that make me to you?"

"You're a man, Ivan. And the one in charge, although I believe you should change almost everything if you pleased. You're a fool, using women and then putting them to work…I can't get over the fact that you burned Katya. The poor thing has a scar the size of one of your palms. Was she really so wrong? Maybe if things were kinder here, no one would feel the compulsion to run."

"So I'm a terrible person then?"

"No. You're a human with a good heart who became power drunk. You've been through too much, but haven't we all? I was sold into servitude like a slave and you've been beaten with war and revolutions and God knows what else. But there is never an excuse for cruelty, whatever the reason may be. Because everyone has freewill, no matter their circumstances…I shouldn't have bruised Natasha."

Again, the unsteady pace crept in.

"…Do you actually love me, Elizaveta?"

"Do you actually love me? Or at least trust me? You've gone through my things again. I don't know if I can rely on you."

"Of course I do. I'm not a liar, regardless of what you think of me now. _I love you_, Elizaveta. Do you love me?"

"…I feel like I shouldn't."

"Why is that?"

"It's simple." Those neat lines knitted together and caused trouble to stir about the woman's delicate visage, those emerald orbs uncertain as to where they should remain. "There's a man in Austria who still loves me. And who I still love. I shouldn't have come here. I'm completely out of my element. Like a peacock in the snow. It doesn't seem right. And I almost wonder if my love isn't born from desperation. Because I'm so lonely here, and having someone to give affection helps bandage all these little cuts all over me. I almost believe that the only reason you love me is that I became your friend, and I could give you kind words without clinging to you in obsession."

"It's more than that!"

"Is it?" They regarded one another, the only noise inside that chamber the homely whispers of the fire. "Perhaps you believe it is. But it's hard to see anything straight when you're in love. I know how it goes."

"Why do the reasons matter, Elizaveta? We have each other. Isn't that enough?"

And the muse took sweet time to fabricate a response. "No…It can all fall apart any moment if it's for the wrong reason. It's like building a house of straw, the moment it rains, and the entire thing just seems to vanish." Elizaveta's lips twisted beneath her nose. "This isn't right. I made a promise to Roderich. I'm not allowed to simply forget him or just move on. Because regardless of his absence, he's still, mine. And I'm still his…"

"What's the matter with you? Every other goddamn word, it's Roderich, Roderich, Roderich, _Roderich._ He's not here. And you're not there. Why hasn't it sunk in that you won't be seeing him for years on end? Do you honestly believe that you can keep a commitment to a ghost? How are you betraying him? How can you betray someone who isn't even present? You might as well be stabbing all his ancestors in the back while you're at it. But you don't care about me. No one does. I'm not surprised."

"Shut your moth! I _do_ care about you! But you fail to understand that I was happy before I was forced to come here! Of course I'm going to be upset! So I'm not allowed to speak of someone just because you're going to feel 'hurt'? Oh, goodness. You poor, poor thing. Sitting on top of your little pedestal and literally burning all our work! The only reason we exist is to keep your house warm, and clean your floors, and make you entertained! Have you considered how I feel? You say you understand; that you've lost. Then don't you realize it still hurts? That it's still hard to think of my entire life before now and not burst into tears? I can't just drop the past for you. We both know damn well that's not how it works. Because you would drop those memories like an anvil, wouldn't you? That is, if you were given a choice."

Harsh quiet.

"It seems that you can't evade your own phantoms, Ivan. That's exactly why you feel the need to beat us when we leave. To harm us when we do something wrong. To suck Natasha dry. As stupid as she was, she didn't deserve to be used. Now she's truly lost her mind." A serious stare. "You tell me I can't let anything go. What about you? I'm certain there are times in your day that binds you to the past. You think of it, don't you?"

"…How can I avoid it, Elizaveta?"

"Move on…But perhaps it truly doesn't work. I've been trying to do the same; but shackles stretching across countries are difficult to break."

Ivan's mouth was left vacuous.

"I'm sorry that reading my thoughts hurt you. But you weren't meant to see them."

"Then why did you write them all in Cyrillic? In Russian. If there weren't meant for anyone's eyes, then why put them in a language all of us can understand? Why not record them in Hungarian, or German or Chinese for all I care?"

"I don't why I wrote them in Russian…It didn't seem right for me to put them down in any other language. Because writing in Russian was almost like accepting it. Sooner or later, this will be my place, however much I hate it. I might even forget all my German, all my Hungarian. And then all my memories will be in Russian. Roderich will speak in Russian. Everything will be in Russian. Perhaps even my origins. And fighting it will do nothing. So why write something in a language I'll likely forget? That would be even more painful, going back to glance at all those memories and not even understanding what they had to say."

"You wouldn't forget Hungarian."

"Who's to say, Ivan? I almost had once. After being in Austria for so long…I recalled it when I took a trip back. But it took me a while."

Again, the speech had been stolen from the Tsar's lips.

Then came the bitter stillness that infected the room like plague.

And either thought.

"…I'm not so certain we should be together any longer, Ivan."

Utter quiet.

"Why not?"

"I don't think we love another for the right reasons. And I can't trust you. It's not right."

Ivan glanced to her, touching her palm. "Please Elizaveta."

"No…Put me back to work."

He grasped her hand. "_Elizaveta_. I love you. I'm not lying…if you could read something of mine you would, wouldn't you? Especially if it was regarding you. And I would forgive you for it. I wouldn't even blame you."

"I do forgive you. I just don't wish to go on like this…I feel disgusting. Like a whore."

"You're not a whore!"

"Please give me back my hand."

The woman's appendage was freed.

Then minutes came. Empty minutes wallowing in electricity. The air was void of noise, all accept for the fire giving its hushed input. Emotion caused a typhoon, but it was not a storm meant to destroy, it only whirled about that parlor, stomachs sinking into their uncertainty. Neither was adamant upon that decision. Not even the woman who proposed it. Because regretfully, there were still great fragments of her soul that kept those affections. All for the King. All for the Ruler. All for the tyrant. The one who had granted and stole so much from her hands.

And in a kind of resolution, Elizaveta raised inquiry.

"Have any letters come for me?"

"Yes. They have. And I burned them." Ivan allotted those words as though they were casual, nothing meant to entice rage and bring about reckless sorrow. No. It was a base fact. The sky was blue. The grass was green. And Ivan Braginski had set Elizaveta's letters to flame.

The woman did not project the acid accumulating against her teeth.

"I'm sorry."

Her cheek was afflicted by those handsome lips, which seared against her flesh as though they were steaming iron, the very same forms that had enticed her so many times previously.

Then Ivan left, embellishing that shaking creature in solitude.

And that was that.

And that was all there would ever be.


	41. Epilogue

Life progressed. Elizaveta's room was mended, fresh sheets lined that beaten mattress and new dresses became innards for that voided wardrobe. New oaken pieces came.

Then love began to rot.

The pair stepped nearer and drew further away, made love and felt guilty afterward. Either knew that the once flourishing bloom had decomposed, and all that was left were the decrepit and crackling petals, hue bleeding white and texture an autumn leaf.

There was nothing after that.

Then the years set in.

Elizaveta still wrote to Roderich, but having him from sight so very long caused her crux to become faulty. There were embers remaining of that passionate conflagration, but it was not what it was before. After all those harsh winters of blistered assignment and wrenching lonesomeness, Elizaveta stopped missing Roderich. She stopped missing her old life. She swallowed her circumstance as though it was loving poison, and death was finally accepted as a sweetened fix to that everlasting ache.

Her German became terrible. Almost as though the language had been crippled by her teeth and twisted by her tongue. Moments came when she attempted to speak it. But it felt like sand paper upon her buds. Her throat hurt. There was an accent lining those words as lace sewn unevenly. And such blatant truth made the woman cry.

Russian words made their way into her missives, and Roderich sent her a novel in German at her request, so everything would not be thrown n the dust. That when they reunited, if they ever would, there could be communication. Because Roderich held no Russian between his lips. Only a few syllables were acquired, and that was due to the Hungarian's learning. They likely expired.

And with that, life faded into the bland.

It was years later that Elizaveta tried to run.

She got as far as the edge of that enormous city, and was caught. They sent her back, those strange men that were not police, but perhaps companions of the dictator himself.

Elizaveta did not cry when Ivan beat her. She did not scream out. She did not even part her lips in discomfort. Instead, those incriminating gems engulfed him, accusing, angry, wishing to take blood from the one who stole hers.

But despite those emotive orbs, the woman did not run again. She was not stupid.

1991 came.

Elizaveta had lost count of the seasons.

All those around her packed their things, their cloth bags and their ancient suitcases and their meager possessions. They left one by one. Some of those old friends came to claim them. Some of them went out with their own company. But each one went, filing outside like desperate ants.

Those remaining were the butterfly and the beetle.

The beetle coiled into himself.

"Ivan?"

"Yes, Elizaveta?"

"You know that Roderich is coming tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yes. I know."

"Well…I wanted to say good-bye."

"Can you speak German anymore?"

"No. Not really."

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright." Her anger had fled long before she ever could. "It's not really your fault."

"I know."

There was that gaping silence that seemed to occupy every last pause.

"No one hesitated. Not one person actually wanted to stay here. Not even Natasha…What am I going to do in this gigantic house?" The Russian shook his doubtful head. "I'll lose my mind, Elizaveta."

"Can you blame them?"

"No…No I can't." Attention was directed from that former muse. "It's just incredibly sad."

"Yes. It is."

Uncomfortable peace.

"I'm sorry, Elizaveta."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know…Really. At least, pinpointing everything would be difficult. But I'm sorry. I know I made you unhappy. Now that it's all over and they're all gone, I can finally see the things that went wrong. I didn't mean to be so cruel…" Tears were prickling within those dull windows.

And finally, there was that glittering sympathy that had not been present far so very long. It had exploded with the rage and the joy and the sorrow. All of those emotions had dehydrated, and with that near freedom, they trickled back in through that newly constituted sky-light.

"It's alright, Ivan. I'm not angry anymore."

"How can you not be?"

"Well…After a while you just forget. The hatred gets to be so exhausting that you just let it go. Because when there's nothing that can be done, there's no point in being enraged so many hours of the day. I couldn't feel hardly anything, to be honest. My whole heart had just…emptied. I'm not quite certain I was ever truly furious. Sometimes I was. But never constantly." Their gazes melded for the first time in so very long. "I think I understand you a little better than the others. So instead of being angry, I just feel pity for you. It's possible for things to change. It never has to be this way. But you have to change yourself, Ivan. You can be kind. You have been in the past."

The man, once standing so many stories high, fell to his knees, sobbing, palms covering writhing mounds and lids lined in squeezed blond lashes fighting boiling tears.

And Elizaveta regarded that scene, stomach turning in guilt that was not her own.

"Elizaveta, will you have dinner with me?"

"Yes, Ivan. I will."

So they ate dinner with one another.

Either slept peacefully.

The Hungarian packed her things the next morning. Then she waited by the door and tapped those pretty high heels against the floor. Her figure was clothed in beauty, but still, she managed to take her residence upon gravity's platform.

The knock came at twelve o' clock sharp.

That was Roderich. Always on time.

The threshold spread wide, as a fantastic angel throwing her demure arms wide, and gave light to that Austrian, who had began to weep before the knob had even been convinced. He stood with a bouquet of handsome crimson roses, the poor blossoms shaking in his calloused, strong hands. He still played the piano.

They stared at one another, mouths agape and rivers forming against those rouge infested cheeks.

All the missing love and attraction and pain came roaring back. It became the blood within their veins and intoxicated them as opium had after so many months of sobriety. Neither could speak, nor could they move. They were petrified, stricken as fools and far too stupid to even create coherent thought.

But finally, Elizaveta came to that man. Engulfing him within her beaming embrace crushing those glorious flowers. Layering him within her unfettered affection.

"Roderich…"

"Elizaveta, I missed you…"

Their souls became one, as though the woman had only left the day before and the man having gone only for short hours. They were still identical pieces to the very same puzzle, the catalyst and the enzyme.

Hearts glowed and dust turned to stars.

Purpose had been dropped back into the woman's life, as well as that handsome man's, and finally, breath reentered their dead lungs.

They kissed one another, wallowing in tears and passion, blinded by the entire world before them. The cuts evaporated, the bruises withered away, and that universe centered on the pair. Everything had been renewed, the garden reborn, those dead petals springing back to healthy life.

Ivan watched from paces away, joyous and miserable. There was happiness for that queen, that wondrous duchess. He had taken her forgiveness and healed his very own heart, all those mangled lacerations stitched together. It would be lonely, but it was alright. Because things would be different. That world was new, and no more animosity was required.

The emperor and his empress left, their hands intertwined, their mouths shaped in bliss, and their feet moving as though their bodies weighed nothing.

But Elizaveta looked backwards, in no way frightened of becoming salt. She gave kindness inside those shimmering emeralds, soaked within their return and farewell. And Ivan took them, relief embracing him, and warmth instilling life upon limbs that were once frozen.

Elizaveta could spread those golden wings and Ivan could finally bandage his wounds.


End file.
